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COEXRIGHT DEPOSIT- 



WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 



BY ARNOLD BENNETT 



Novels 

THE OLD WIVES' TALE 

HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 

THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 

BURIED ALIVE 

A GREAT MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 

A MAN FROM THE NORTH 

ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 

Smaller Books 

HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A 

DAY 
THE HUMAN MACHINE 
LITERARY TASTE 
MENTAL EFFICIENCY 

Drama 

CUPID AND COMMONSENSE 
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK 



WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 



A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 
ARNOLD BENNETT 

Author of "The Old Wives' Tale," 
" How to Live on Twenty-four Hours a Day," etc. 



GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



v> 



r> 






Copyright, 1909, bt 
THE S. S. McCLURE CO. 

COPTKIGHT, 1911, BY 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



1CI.D 24760 



CHARACTERS 

Sir Charles Worgan, Newspaper Proprietor \ 

Francis Worgan, Wanderer V Brothers. 

John Worgan, Provincial Doctor ) 

Saul Kendrick, Manager of Worgans, Ltd. 

Holt St. John, Theatrical Manager. 

Samuel Cleland, his Stage Manager. 

Simon Macquoid, Dramatic Critic. 

James Brindley, Earthenware Manufacturer. 

Edward Brindley, his Son. 

Page-boy. 

Emily Vernon, Widow. 

Mrs. Cleland (Henrietta Blackwood). 

Annie Worgan, Wife of John Worgan. 

Mrs. Worgan, Mother of the Worgans. 

Mrs. Downes. 

Servant at John Worgan's. 

TIME:— To-day. 



WHAT THE PUBLIC 

WANTS 

ACT I 

Notes on Characters in this Act 

Sir Charles W organ. — Brusque. Accustomed to power. 
With rare flashes of humour, and of charm. Well dressed, 
but not too carefully. Strong frame. Decided gestures. 
Age 40. 

Francis Worgan. — A traveller, a philosopher, and some- 
thing of a dilettante; rather afraid of coming to grips with 
life. Very well dressed, but with a touch of the unusual — 
for example, a quite fashionable collar with a soft necktie 
tied in a rather obtrusive bow. Talks quietly. Always 
punctiliously polite. Age 41. 

Saul Kendrick. — Gross, stoutish, sporting. Dressed cor- 
rectly, but without taste. Loud. His cigar is several sizes 
too large. His gestures are vulgar. Not gentlemanly, 
though by fits and starts he seems to remember that he is a 
gentleman. Age 50. 

Emily Vernon. — Beautiful; but conscious that her youth is 
passing. Charming. Her moods change rapidly. She is 
dressed with distinguished taste, but not expensively. Her 
face is sad when she isn't alert. She has been through sorrow 
and through hard times. Age 29. 

Simon Macquoid. — The only thing to note is that he is 
angry throughout his scene. Age 45. 



8 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Private office of Sir Charles Worgan. Doors R., 
L., and back centre. Utmost possible rich- 
ness of office furniture. Grand central desk, 
with dictaphone and telephone. Side tables, 
full of papers, correspondence, etc. Large 
date-calendar prominent. A red disk showing 
on wall at back. General air of orderliness 
and great activity. Sir Charles Worgan and 
Kendrick are opposite each other at central 
desk, with two piles of assorted magazines and 
journals on the desk. Kendrick is smoking a 
large cigar. Time, afternoon, November. 

Kendrick. Now then, there's this confounded 
Sabbath Chimes! [picking up a periodical from 
the pile to his left hand~\ . 

Sir C. Well, what's it doing? 

Kendrick [referring to a list of figures]. Eight- 
een thousand. 

Sir C. It's dropping, then. 

Kendrick. Dropping? I should say it was! 
But it never was any real good. We bought it 
for a song and 

Sir C. [interrupting him sharply"]. That's no 
reason! We bought the Evening Courier when 
its shares were at sixpence, and now it's earning 
a thousand pounds a week. 

Kendrick. Yes, but the Courier isn't religious. 
You wouldn't call a halfpenny evening paper 
exactly religious, would you? 



ACT I 9 

Sir C. What's that got to do with it? Do 
you mean to say there isn't a religious pub- 
lic? 

Kendrick. I've never met it [flickmg ash off his 

cigar] . 

Sir C [very slightly nettled]. Now look here, 
Kendrick, we don't want to waste time in f acetious- 
ness. We still have quite twenty papers to go 
through [fingering pile]. 

Kendrick [very slightly more deferential], I'm 
not joking, Sir Charles. What I say is— there 
are two things that are absolutely U.P. in 
this country; one is limericks, and the other is 
religion. 

Sir C. That be damned ! No one ever expected 
limericks to last ; but let me tell you there's a lot 
of money in religion yet. [Kendrick shrugs his 
shoulders.] Let's have a squint at Chimes [he 
turns the pages over]. Hm! No! It isn't crisp 
enough. I ask you — does it look snappy ? . . . . 
[reading from it in a startled tone]. " Problems 
of the Day: Are we growing less spiritual?' 3 
[Angry.] Great heavens ! Whose idiotic notion 
was that? 

Kendrick. Haliburton's. 

SirC. Well, that really is a bit too thick! You 
know, seriously, you ought to keep an eye on 
things better than that. 

Kendrick [hurt]. I've been giving all my time 
to the sporting department. Think of the trouble 



10 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

I've had with the Billiard Ball alone, to say 
nothing of putting the Racecourse on its legs. I 
can't attend to everything, Sir Charles. 

Sir C. [still fuming'] . " Are we growing less 
spiritual? " As if anybody cared a tuppenny 
curse whether we are growing less spiritual or 
not! No wonder the thing's dropping! What 
does the Reverend Mr. Haliburton get? 

Kendrick. Fifty pounds a month. 

Sir C. Does he imagine he's going to earn fifty 
pounds a month, here, by asking the British public 
if it's growing less spiritual? Sack the fool. 
Where did you pick him up? 

Kendrick. Religious Tract Society. Fished him 
out myself. 

Sir C. Well, you'd better return him with 
thanks. 

Kendrick. That's all very fine. Where shall 
we find some one to take his place? It isn't the 
first starving curate that comes along who will 
be able to run Haliburton's department. He's a 
worker. 

Sir C. What's the good of his being a worker 
if he's never got the hang of our style? [Holding 
out periodical.] Look at it! 

Kendrick. I'm not defending him. I'm only 
saying that to find ideas for Sabbath Chimes, 
The Sunday Comrade, The Pleasant Sunday After- 
noon Record, Sunday Tales, The Sunday School 
Teacher's Friend, and Golden Words, is none so 



ACT I 11 

much of a blooming picnic. I wouldn't like to 
have to do it myself. 

Sir C. [less angry, persuasively] . All right. As 
you please. You're responsible. But wake 
him up. 

Kendrick. Why can't you give him a lead, Sir 
Charles ? 

Sir C. Me! You know perfectly well I have 
all I can do for at least a couple of months, shov- 
ing the Mercury. 

Kendrick. I was forgetting that for the 
moment. 

Sir C. It must not be forgotten even for a 
moment that the Daily Mercury is the leading 
line of this Company. It must also not be for- 
gotten that the circulation of the Mercury must 
touch a million before the Annual Meeting — even 
if the country has to go to war for it. No, my 
boy; you've done wonders in the sporting depart- 
ment. And I'm sure you can do wonders in the 
religious department, once you really give your 
mind to it. [Voices outside the door, back.] 

Kendrick. It doesn't seem to come so natural. 

Sir C. Oh, nonsense ! The first thing you have 
to do is to make Haliburton understand what snap 
is. Take him out to lunch. Pour it into him. 
And tell him from me that if every one of those 
papers doesn't show a satisfactory profit in six 
months' time he will be at liberty to go into the 
mission field, and the farther off the better. Of 



12 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

course that "Are we growing less spiritual?" 
rubbish must be stopped in the next number. 
[Turning casually.] What's going on outside? 

Kendrick [ignoring the question]. Yes, and 
supposing he asks me what's to take its place? 

Sir C. It's his business to find out. [Handmg 
paper to Kendrick.] 

Kendrick. But what sort of thing? 

Sir C. Well, now. Here's a good idea. What's 
the series called? 

Kendrick. " Problems of the Day." 

Sir C. What about this, then : " Ought curates 
to receive presents from lady -parishioners ? " 

Kendrick [enthusiastic]. By Jove! That's a 
great idea, that is ! I wish you had a bit more 
time to spare, Sir Charles. [Nods his head 
approvingly.] 

Sir C. [pleased with himself]. That ought to 
give him a start, anyhow. 

Fran. Wor. [off]. Open that door, or you are 
a doomed boy. This dagger is tipped with a 
deadly poison. 

Sir C. What in the name of [Goes quietly 

to door, back, and opens it. The figures of Francis 
Worgan and a Page-boy are seen. A slight 
pause.] 

Francis [entering, a sword-cane in his hand, 
very quietly]. How d'ye do, Charlie? [A pause.] 

Sir C. How do, Frank? [They shake hands.] 
Excuse me, will you, Kendrick? 



ACT I 13 

Kendrick. Certainly, Sir Charles. [Exit Ken- 
drick, R. The Page-boy closes the door from out- 
side.'] 

Francis. Well, Charlie, I sympathise with you. 
I feel just the same as you do — very nervous. 

Sir C. Nervous? What about? 

Francis [shutting up the sword-cane~\. About 
my demeanour. How ought brothers to behave 
who haven't seen each other for nineteen years? 

Sir C. I perceive you aren't altered. [They 
sit.] 

Francis. That's a hard thing to say. While I 
was waiting in your waiting-room I saw in a maga- 
zine called Golden Words, under the heading 
"Pregnant Utterances of the Month," "We 
should all strive to do a little better every day. — 
Archbishop of Canterbury." That is what I've 
been doing for nineteen years — and you tell me 
I haven't altered 1 

Sir C. You know what I mean. I mean that 
you still make people wonder what the devil you 
will say next. 

Francis. You've altered, anyhow. You couldn't 
have said anything as clever as that nineteen years 
ago. 

Sir C. [pleased']. Think so? [Pause.] 

Francis. However, physically you're astound- 
ingly the same. 

Sir C. So are you. [A pause.] I should have 
known you anywhere. When did you arrive? 



14 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. Yesterday. 

Sir C. Then I'm the first to see you. And 
where have you turned up from? 

Francis. I've " turned up " from Japan. Via 
New York. 

Sir C. What do you think of New York? 

Francis. I don't think of it, except by inad- 
vertence. [Rising and going to dish, in a puzzled 
tone.] What is that? I saw something like it 
outside the door, and downstairs in the den of 
the commissionaire. 

Sir C. [rising]. That? It's an apparatus that 
shows whether I can be seen or not. The red 
disk is up now. That means I'm engaged and 
can't be seen by any one, appointment or no ap- 
pointment ! Putting it up here puts it up outside 
the door and in the commissionaire's room. Here's 
the green disk — that means that I'm engaged but 
can be disturbed. Blue means that I'm here, alone. 
Yellow means that I'm not in my office, but some- 
where in the building. And white means that I'm 
out. Ingenious, eh? [In a serious tone.] Abso- 
lutely necessary, you know. 

Francis [as they both sit down again]. So that 
explains why I had such an exciting time in get- 
ting to see you. 

Sir C. [smiling]. I'm supposed to be the most 
difficult man to see in London. 

Francis. Yes, I noticed the commissionaire was 
wearing several medals. Doubtless for valour. 



ACT I 15 

First he made me fill up a form, as inquisitive as 
an income-tax paper. When I told him I had an 
appointment, he instructed me to sit down. So I 
sat down and read Golden Words for ten minutes. 
Then I thought it would be a good idea to tell 
him I was your brother, and not merely some one 
of the same name. 

Sir C. What did he say then? 

Francis. He told me to sit down, and gave me 
a sceptical look, as much as to say : " You're his 
brother, are you? Well, so am I!" So I sat 
down and read The Lad's Own Budget for ten 
minutes. Then, while he was busy torturing an- 
other applicant, I nipped into the lift just as it 
was going up, and began wandering about pas- 
sages. I managed to catch a boy. What a lot 
of boys you have ! 

Sir C. By the way, is that stick really poi- 
soned ! 

Francis. No. It was a notion I got out of 
The Lad's Own Budget. I was determined to see 
you, or perish in the attempt. I felt sure you 
couldn't be coming the great man over me, espe- 
cially as I'd made an appointment. I'll say this 
for our family, at any rate — there's no affected 
nonsense about any of us. 

Sir C. My dear chap, I hadn't the slightest 
notion you were in London. But how did you 
make an appointment? With my secretary? 

Francis. Secretary ! Didn't know you had one ! 



16 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

No, I dropped you a line last night, and marked 
the letter " Private and Immediate." 

Sir C. That's just where you made a mistake. 
We get about five thousand letters a day here. 
A van brings the first post every morning direct 
from St. Martin's-le-Grand. [Going to a side- 
table ', and fingering a large batch of letters.] Our 
sorting clerks have instructions to put aside all 
letters addressed to me personally and marked pri- 
vate or urgent, and they are always opened last. 
[Opening a letter.] Yes, here's yours. 

Francis. Why are they opened last ? 

Sir C. It's the dodge of every begging-letter 
writer in England to mark his envelope " Private 
and Urgent." [Throws letter into waste-paper 
basket, after glancing at it.] 

Francis. I see. You may be said to have an 
organisation here ! 

Sir C. [putting his hands in his pockets and 
smiling superiorly] . You bet ! Considerably over 
a thousand people earn their bread and butter in 
this building, and wages run from five bob on to 
a hundred pounds a week. What price that, eh? 

Francis. Well, Charlie, we were never given to 
praising each other, but I'll go this far — you're a 
caution ! 

Sir C. I believe I am. In fact, I must be. I've 
revolutionised journalism, and I'm only forty. [A 
pause.] You're forty-one. 

Francis. And the staid Johnny is forty-three. 



ACT I 17 

I was asking the mater the other day in a letter 
what she thought of having three sons all over 
forty. 

Sir C. Does she make you write to her every 
week ? 

Francis. Yes. 

Sir C. So she does me, too. I never know 
what to say to her. 

Francis. Been down to the Five Towns lately? 

Sir C. No — not lately. No time, you know. 

Francis. And Johnny? Does he come much 
to London? 

Sir C. Not often, I think. I imagine from 
what the mater says that his practice must be 
growing pretty rapidly. 

Francis. What's his wife like? 

Sir C. Oh, very decent woman, I should 
imagine. 

Francis. Your relations with the family appear 
to be chiefly a work of imagination, my boy. 

Sir C. And what about yours? Seeing that 
not a single member of the family has set eyes on 
you for nineteen years 

Francis. But I'm different. I'm a wanderer. 
I'm one of those people who seem to have no press- 
ing need of a home, or a national anthem, or rela- 
tives, or things of that kind. Of course one likes 
to meet one's relatives, sometimes. 

Sir C. No home? But what on earth do you 
do with yourself? 



18 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. I just go about and keep my eyes open 
— and try to understand what I see. 

Sir C. Nothing else? 

Francis. That takes me all my time. 

Sir C. [staring at him]. It's you that's the 
caution, not me ! 

Francis. We're getting over it rather well, I 
think. 

Sir C. Getting over what? What do you 

Francis. Over the awkwardness of this first 
interview. I hope I'm not interfering with busi- 
ness. 

Sir C. [heartily]. Not in the least. My theory 
is that if a really big concern is properly or- 
ganised, the boss ought to be absolutely independ- 
ent of all routine. He ought to be free for 
anything that turns up unexpectedly. Anyhow, 
I am. 

Francis. Well, I candidly confess that this 
business of yours is just a size larger than I 
expected. 

Sir C. Yes, it's big — big. We own about forty 
different publications : two London dailies, 
three provincial dailies, five popular penny week- 
lies, two sixpenny weeklies, three illustrated 
monthlies, four ladies' papers, six sporting and 
athletic, five religious papers, two Sunday 
papers 

Francis. What's the subtle difference between 
a religious paper and a Sunday paper? 



ACT I 19 

Sir C. Oh, they're — well, they're quite dif- 
ferent ! 

Francis. Really ! 

Sir C. Four halfpenny comic papers, four boys' 
papers, and I don't know what else. 

Francis. I distinctly remember you saying once 
at school there wasn't a schoolboys' paper fit to 
wipe your feet on — you were always buying them 
to see. 

Sir C. And there wasn't ! It was a boys' paper 
I began with — The Lad's Own Budget. The 
schoolboy was the foundation of this business. 
And let me tell you our capital is now nearly two 
and a half millions. 

Francis. The deuce it is ! 

Sir C. Yes, didn't you know? 

Francis. No, and I suppose you're the princi- 
pal proprietor? 

Sir C. What do you think? Kendrick and I, 
we control a majority of the shares. Kendrick — 
that's the man who was here when you came in — 
gets a salary of five thousand a year. 

Francis. Well, this is very interesting. I've 
had all sorts of disconcerting impressions since I 
reached Charing Cross twenty-four hours ago — 
when I saw that Exeter Hall was gone, reason 
tottered on her throne — but really, Charlie! 
Really, Charlie ! It sounds a strange thing to 
say of one's own brother — but you are the most 
startling phenomenon of the age. 



20 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. That's what I'm beginning to think 
myself. 

Francis. Of course, you're a millionaire. 

Sir C. Pooh ! I was a millionaire six years ago. 
Surely you must have got a notion from the 
mater's letters? 

Francis. Very vague ! She chiefly writes about 
Johnny's babies. 

Sir C. [laughs shortly]. It's true I never give 
her any precise details, lest the old lady should 
think I was bragging. She hates that. 

Francis. I'm just the least bit in the world 
staggered. 

Sir C. Well, there it is ! [leans back in his 
chair] . 

Francis. All this, I suppose, from Uncle Joe's 
ten thousand. 

Sir C. Precisely. What have you done with 
your ten thousand? 

Francis. Nothing. Just lived on it. 

Sir C. Do you mean to say you can live on the 
interest of ten thousand and travel? 

Francis. Why, of course! All an Englishman 
has to do is to avoid his compatriots. What puz- 
zles me is how you can get through even a decent 
fraction of your income. 

Sir C. Oh ! what with one thing and another, 
I get through a goodish bit. You heard I bought 
Hindhead Hall? 

Francis. Yes. What did you buy it for? 



ACT I 21 

Sir C. Well, I thought I ought to have a place 
in the country. 

Francis. To go with the knighthood? 

Sir C If you like. You must come down and 
see Hindhead. 

Francis. Great joke, that knighthood! What 
did they give it you for? 

Sir C. Well — I'm supposed to be somebody. 

Francis. I always thought knighthoods were 
given to nobodies. 

Sir C. [a little testily]. That depends! That 
depends ! And let me tell you that the knighthood 
is only a beginning. 

Francis [shortly]. Ah! Only a beginning! 
Really! [smiling]. I say, what did Johnny say 
about the knighthood? 

Sir C. Nothing. 

Francis. What interests me is, how you man- 
aged to do it. 

Sir C. Do what? Get the knighthood? 
That's 

Francis [interrupting him brusquely]. No 
The — the success, the million, the splash. 

Sir C. I can tell you this — I did it honestly. 
That's another thing about me — I'm probably the 
only millionaire in the world with a clear con- 
science. What d'ye think of that? People say 
that no one can make a million in ten years and 
not be a scoundrel. But I did. I've never tried 
to form a trust. I've never tried to ruin a com- 



22 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

petitor. I've never sweated my chaps. They have 
to work hard, and I give 'em pepper, and I'd sack 
one as soon as look at him, but they are well paid 
— some of 'em are handsomely paid. The price 
of labour in journalism has gone up, and it's 
thanks to me. Another thing — I give the best 
value for money that ever was given. 

Francis. Yes, but how did you do it? What's 
your principle? 

Sir C. I've only got one principle. Give the 
public what it wants. Don't give the public what 
you think it ought to want, or what you think 
would be good for it; but what it actually does 
want. I argue like this. Supposing you went 
into a tobacconist's and asked for a packet of 
cigarettes, and the tobacconist told you that 
cigarettes were bad for you, and that he could only 
sell you a pipe and tobacco — what should you 
say? [He rises, excited.] 

Francis. Now what should I say ? I don't think 
I should be able to think of anything clever 
enough until I got outside the shop. 

Sir C. [not laughing, but insisting on his argu- 
ment]. You see my point, eh? You see my point? 
I've got no moral axes to grind. I'm just a busi- 
ness man [more excitedly]. 

Francis. My dear boy, I'm not contradicting 
you. 

Sir C. I know, I know. But some people make 
me angry. There seems to be a sort of notion 



ACT I 23 

about that because it's newspapers I sell, and not 
soap or flannel, I ought to be a cross between 
General Booth, H. G. Wells, and the Hague Con- 
ference. I'm a manufacturer, just like the fellows 
that sell soap and flannel :only a damned sight more 
honest. There's no deception about my goods. 
You never know what there is in your soap or your 
flannel, but you know exactly what there is in my 
papers, and if you aren't pleased you don't buy. 
I make no pretence to be anything but a business 
man. And my speciality is, what the public wants 
— in printed matter. 

Francis. But how did you find out what it 
wants? I suppose it wasn't vouchsafed to you in 
a dream. 

Sir C. [hesitating]. I— I don't exactly know. 
... I began by thinking about what I should 
want myself. The Lad's Own Budget was the 
first. I knew well enough what I wanted when I 
was a boy of twelve, for instance; and as most 
boys are alike— you see ! . . .1 put on the 
market a paper that I actually did want when I 
was twelve. . . . And you may believe me when 
I tell you that hot cakes were simply not in it, not 
in it\ .. . And so I went on, always keeping 

in mind [Enter Page-boy with newspaper 

and letters, etc., on a salver. Exit.] 

Francis. So the red disk doesn't absolutely bar 
the door to everybody? 

Sir C. What do you mean? Oh, the messen- 



24 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

ger. He always comes in at this time [looks at 
clock]. He's four minutes late, by the way [looks 
at his watch]. No, it's that clock [glancing at 
paper and letters, then resuming his discourse]. 
Always keeping in mind how I captured the boy 
of twelve. I've sometimes thought of having an 
inscription painted over the door there: "Don't 
forget the boy of twelve " — [hastily] just for a 
lark, you know. At last I got as far as the 
Daily Mercury, and I don't fancy any news- 
paper proprietor in my time is likely to get 
much further. A twelve-page paper for a half- 
penny and the most expensive news service on 
earth! What do you think? [glancing again at 
letters], 

Francis. I must confess I've never read the 
Mercury, 

Sir C, [astounded]. Never read the Mercury! 
Everybody reads the Mercury. 

Francis. I don't. 

Sir C. [solemnly]. Do you seriously mean to 
say you've never read the Mercury? Why, man, 
it's nine years old, and sells over nine hundred 
thousand copies a day. 

Francis. I noticed it about everywhere in the 
streets this morning, and so I bought a copy, and 
put it in my pocket, intending to have a look at 
it, but I forgot. Yes, here it is [taking folded 
paper from his pocket]. 

Sir C. [still astounded]. Well, I said it was you 



ACT I 25 

who were the caution, and, by Jove, it is ! What 
do you read? 

Francis. When I'm out of reach of a daily post 
I read the Times Weekly Edition. Of course, 
my first care this morning was to get the Man- 
chester Guardian. I always have that when I 
can. 

Sir C. Surprising what a craze there is among 
you cultured people for the Manchester Guardian! 
I'm always having that thrown at my head. 
Here! [tossing over newspaper from salver]. 
Here's the fourth edition of the Evening Courier, 
just off the machine. Never read that either, I 
suppose ! 

Francis. No. 

Sir C. [nodding his head as one with no further 
capacity for surprise]. Well, well ! It's a sort of 
evening Mercury. Have a look at it! Just ex- 
cuse me for two minutes, will you? I must dictate 
one or two things at once. [Sits down to dicta- 
phone, and begins speaking into it.] Mr. Cook- 
son. Write Medways — you know, the clock peo- 
ple 

Francis [curious, examining]. Hello! What's 
that dodge? 

Sir C. It's a dictaphone. Never seen one be- 
fore? Shorthand clerks get on your nerves so. 
You blaze away into it, and then it repeats what 
you've said to the clerk — elsewhere, thank heaven ! 
Francis. How amusing! 



26 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. [into dictaphone] — to cancel their con- 
tract for regulating clocks. They've been warned 
twice. Mine's four minutes fast. Write to Pneu- 
matic Standard Time Company, or whatever its 
name is, and get an estimate for all the clocks in 
building. Typewriter. My dear Lady Calder, 
many thanks for your most — — 

Francis [looking at " Courier "]. I say, who's 
Chate? 

Sir C. Chate? Chate? He's a convict who 
got ten years for killing his mother or something. 
Let off lightly under the First Offenders Act, I 
suppose. Immensely celebrated for his escape from 
Dartmoor Prison. They didn't catch him again 
for a fortnight. . . . Why? 

Francis. Only because of this, all across the 
front page of the Courier: [pointing] " Chate, 
now at Holloway, comes out to-morrow." 

Sir C. Ah ! [He suddenly gets up and goes to 
door, R. y cvnd opens it.~\ I say, Kendrick, are you 
there? Just a second. [Enter Kendrick.'] 

Kendrick. Yes ? 

Sir C. Oh, Francis, this is Mr. Kendrick. 
Kendrick, my brother. 

Kendrick [surprised]. Glad to meet you, sir. 
[They shake hands.] 

Sir C. [to Kendrick]. You arranged about 
Chate? [Francis returns to study his newspapers.] 

Kendrick. Chate ? 

Sir C. I told you three months ago we must 



ACT I 27 

have his story written by himself for the Sunday 
Morning News. 

Kendrick. Oh, yes ! Well, it couldn't be done ! 

Sir C. Why? 

Kendrick. We found that the Sentinel people 
had been paying his wife a pound a week for years 
on the understanding that they had his stuff when 
he came out. 

Sir C. What do I care for the Sentinel people ? 
If they have been paying a pound a week that's 
their look-out. We have got to have the story. 
If it's worked up properly it'll be 

Kendrick. Afraid it's too late now. 

Sir C. Too late ! Not a bit ! Look here. Send 
young Perkins with a shorthand clerk. He must 
take the Renault car, and be outside Holloway 
Prison at five-thirty to-morrow morning. Let 
him have £200 in gold — gold, mind ! You've time 
before the bank closes. He must be ready for 
Chate. The wife is certain to be there. Let him 
make friends with her. Tell her the car is abso- 
lutely at their disposal. He can suggest break- 
fast. They're bound to accept. Anyhow, let him 
get Chate into some private room somewhere, out 
of London if possible. Then he can show the 
money. He must show the money. Roll it about 
the table. Explain to Chate that the money will 
be handed over to him after he has talked for a 
couple of hours about his escape and so on, and 
signed his name. The clerk can come back here 



28 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

by train with the stuff; but Perkins must take 
Chate, and his wife too if necessary, off to the 
seaside for a jaunt. He must take 'em out and 
lose 'em till Saturday morning". It'll be too late 
for the Sentinel people to do anything then. And 
you must begin to advertise as soon as the clerk 
turns up with the stuff. Is it all clear? 

Kendrick. Yes. 

Sir C. Well, there's just time for the bank. 
Thanks very much. 

Kendrick. By the way, I find there's a silly 
sort of mistake in the Mercury leader this morn- 
ing. 

Sir C. Oh! What? 

Kendrick. Cettinje is mentioned as the capital 
of Bosnia. 

Sir C. Well, isn't it? 

Kendrick. Seems not. It ought to be Sarajevo. 
The worst of it is that it can't be explained as 
a slip of the pen, owing to unfortunate circum- 
stantial details. 

Sir C. Don't refer to it at all, then. Sit tight 
on it. I suppose that's Smythe's fault. [Ken^ 
drick nods.] Pity he's so careless — he's got more 
snap than all the rest of the crowd put to- 
gether. I say, don't let them be too late for the 
bank. 

Kendrick. No. [In a lower voice.'] I hear a 
question is to be asked as to us in the House this 
afternoon. 



ACT I 29 

Sir C. [after a little pause]. That's good! 
You might send that in to me as soon as it comes 
along. 

Kendrick. Right oh! [Exit, R.] 

Sir C. [after looking at Francis, who is ab- 
sorbed in newspapers, turns to dictaphone] — kind 
invitation, which I am very sorry not to be able 
to accept, as I shall be out of town on Sunday. 
With kind regards, Believe me, Yours sincerely. 
Typewriter. Don't type this on Mercury paper. 
Mr. Cookson. Ask Mr. Smythe to come round and 
see me at my flat at nine to-morrow morning. 
Mark the appointment for me. [Enter Kendrick.] 

Kendrick. Sorry to disturb you [shutting door 
between the two rooms carefully, and speaking 
low] . Here's 

Sir C. Have you given those instructions? 

Kendrick. Yes, yes. Here's Macquoid. He 
insists on seeing you, and as I know you want 
to humour him a bit 

Francis [looking up from papers sharply]. Is 
that Simon Macquoid the critic? 

Sir C. Yes. I've just taken him on for Men 
and Women — our best sixpenny weekly. He's 
pretty good, isn't he? 

Francis. Pretty good ! He's the finest dramatic 
critic in Europe. I should like to meet him. 

Sir C. Well, you shall. Bring him in, Ken- 
drick, will you? [Exit Kendrick.] 

Francis. He knows what he's talking about, 



30 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

that chap does, and he can write. [Enter Ken- 
drick and Macquoid.] 

Sir C. How do you do, Mr. Macquoid? 

Macquoid [very curtly]. How do you do? 

Sir C. May I introduce my brother, Francis 
Worgan, an admirer of yours? 

Francis [rising, and showing his pleasure] . I'm 
delighted to 

Macquoid [cutting him short]. How do you 
do? [Exit Kendrick.] 

Sir C. Take this chair. 

Macquoid. Sir Charles, I want to know what 
you mean by allowing additions to be made to my 
signed articles without my authority. 

Sir C. [quickly resenting the tone]. Additions 
— without your authority ! 

Macquoid [taking an illustrated paper from 
under his arm, and opening it]. Yes, sir. I have 
gathered since seeing this that you do it to other 
contributors; but you won't do it to me. My 
article on the matinee at the Prince's Theatre 
ended thus, as I wrote it : " Despite the strange 
excellence of the play — which has in a high degree 
the disturbing quality, the quality of being 
troublant — the interpretation did not amuse me. 
Mr. Percival Crocker, ' abounding,' as the French 
say, ' in his own sense,' showed pale gleams of 
comprehension ; the rest of the company were as 
heaven made them." That's how I finished. But 
I find this added, above my signature [m a shocked 



ACT I 31 

tone] : " This performance is to in all probability 
be followed by three others." [Stands aghast.] 
Look at it ! [hands paper to Sir C.]. 

Sir C. [stiffly]. Well, Mr. Macquoid, there's 
surely nothing very dreadful about that. I have 
no doubt we put it in to oblige the theatre. More- 
over, I see that without it the page would have 
been two lines short. 

Macquoid. Nothing very dreadful? " To-in- 
all-probability-be-followed." It's an enormity, sir, 
an enormity ! 

Sir C. [very stiffly]. I'm afraid I don't quite 
follow you. 

Francis. Mr. Macquoid no doubt means the 
split infinitive. 

Macquoid. I should think that I did mean the 
split infinitive! I was staggered, positively stag- 
gered, when I looked at my article. Since then 
I've been glancing through your paper, and 
I find split infinitives all over it! Scarcely 
a page of the wretched sheet without a por- 
trait of a chorus girl and a split infinitive ! Mon- 
strous ! 

Sir C. I regret the addition, but I'm bound to 
say I don't understand your annoyance. 

Macquoid. Regret is useless. You must put in 
an apology, or at any rate an explanation, in next 
week's issue. I have my reputation to think about. 
If you imagine, Sir Charles, that because you pay 
me thirty pounds a month you have the right to 



32 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

plaster my work with split infinitives, you are tre- 
mendously mistaken. 

Sir C. [shortly and firmly]. We shall not 
apologise, Mr. Macquoid, and we shall not explain. 
It would be contrary to our practice. 

Macquoid [furious]. You are unscrupulous, 
Sir Charles. Get another dramatic critic. I've 
done with you. Good-day. [Exit quickly.] 

Sir C. [laughing in spite of himself]. Well, of all 
the infernal cheek! That's the worst of these cul- 
tured johnnies. They're mad, every one of 'em. [In 
a different tone.] I say, what is sl split infinitive? 

Francis. A split infinitive is a cardinal sin. 

Sir C. Apparently. But what is it? 

Francis. In our beautiful English tongue, the 
infinitive mood of a verb begins with the particle 
« to." 

Sir C. [thinking of Macquoid]. Damn the fel- 
low! 

Francis. Thus, " to swear." Now the " to " 
must never, never be separated from its verb, not 
even by a single word. If you write " To swear 
foolishly," you are correct. But if you write " To 
foolishly swear," you commit an infamy. And 
you didn't split your infinitive with one word, you 
split it with three. Imagine the crime. 

Sir C. And do you mean to say that you cul- 
tured people care about that sort of thing? 

Francis. You see it's worth thirty pound a 
month to Macquoid. 



ACT I 33 

Sir C. Ah ! But he's in the Civil Service. Half 
of them are. [Sir Charles has rung a bell, and 
taken a record out of the dictaphone. Enter Page- 
boy, to whom he hands the record in silence. Exit 
Page-boy.] 

Francis [putting his two newspapers on his 
knee]. I suppose the question in Parliament that 
Mr. What's-his-name mentioned is about the 
Anglo-German crisis that I see in both these 
papers. 

Sir C. You may depend it is. We're running 
that for all it's worth. If that two-column special 
telegram from Constantinople doesn't wake up the 
B.P. to what Germany is doing in the Near East, 
then nothing will. The fact is, no Government 
could ignore that telegram. And I may tell you, 
strictly between you and me — even Kendrick 
doesn't know it — I practically arranged for a 
question to be put. 

Francis [raising his eyebrows']. Really, you 
can do that sort of thing, eh? 
Sir C. Can I do it ! Ah, ah ! 
Francis. Well, I read both the Times and the 
Manchester Guardian this morning, and I hadn't 
the least idea that there was any war scare at all. 
Everything seemed calm. But now I've looked 
at your Mercury and your Courier, I feel as if 
the world was tumbling about my ears. I see 
that not merely is Germany mobilising in secret, 
but the foundations of Westminster Abbey are in 



34 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

a highly dangerous condition, and, according to 
seven bishops, the sanctity of the English home 
is gravely threatened by the luxury of London 
restaurants. Also you give on page seven of the 
Mercury — I think it is — a very large portrait 
of a boy aged eleven who weighs two hundred 
pounds. 

Sir C. No, the Courier. 

Francis. It's all the same, except for the dif- 
ference in colour. 

Sir C. We paid five pounds for that photo- 
graph. 

Francis. Well, as you say here, it's amazing. 
I've counted the word " amazing " twenty-three 
times [glancing at papers]. " Whirlwinds of ora- 
tory. Bryan speaks ten million words. Amazing 
figures." " Gold despised by burglars. Amazing 
haul of diamonds." " Colonel as co-respondent. 
Amazing letters." " Child-cruelty in a vicarage. 
Amazing allegations." " Strange scene in a 
West-End flat. Amazing pranks." " Sudden 
crisis in Wall Street. Amazing rush." " Kid- 
napped at midnight. Amazing adventure." 
" The unwritten law. Husband's amazing cool- 
ness." " The fresh-egg industry. Amazing 
revelations." And so on, to say nothing of 
Germany. Do you keep it up to that pitch every 
day? 

Sir C. [not altogether pleased]. They like 
it. 



ACT I 35 

Francis. You ought to serve a liqueur brandy 
with every copy of these papers. 

Sir C Of course, superior people may laugh 
— but that's what the public wants. I've proved it. 

Francis. I'll only say this, Charlie: if that's 
what the public wants — how clever you were to find 
it out ! I should never have thought of it ! 

Sir C. [rising and taking up the " Mercury " 
which Francis has dropped on the floor]. See 
here, my boy, you think yourself devilish funny, 
but look at that front-page ad. Look at it ! 

Francis [reading] . " Uric acid. . . . Life's 
misery. ... All chemists. ... A shilling and a 
halfpenny." Well? What about it? 

Sir C Nothing. Only we get three hundred 
pounds for that ad. — one insertion. I'm a business 
man, and that's what I call business. Put that in 
your pipe and smoke it. 

Francis. I suppose the Mercury must appeal 
specially to the uric acid classes. 

Sir C. [sitting down to dictaphone]. You may 
laugh — you may laugh ! [Into dictaphone.] Mr. 
Ricketts. Macquoid has ceased to be the dramatic 
critic of M. and W. Before definitely making 
another appointment you might submit names to 
me. We want something superior, of course. I 
notice a number of split infinitives in this week's 
issue. They are out of place in a high-class illus- 
trated. Watch this. 

Francis. I say, Charlie. 



36 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. Well? 

Francis. What do you say to giving me a trial 
as dramatic critic of Men and Women? 

Sir C. [after a pause]. Can you write? 

Francis. Can you? 

Sir C. [taken aback and recovering himself]. 
Writing is no part of my job. . . . [Reflectively.'] 
But I suppose you can write. In fact [as if 
studying him], you ought to be able to turn out 
something pretty smart. You might even be a 
"find" in journalism. 

Francis. There's no knowing. Anyhow, one 
could try. You may take it from me I can write. 
I've got an idea that the English theatre must be 
a great joke. 

Sir C. I never go myself. But they say it's a 
most frantic bore. 

Francis. Yes. That's what I meant. I gather 
that on the whole it must be frantic enough to be 
worth studying. By the way, I went to a matinee 
at the Prince's Theatre yesterday. 

Sir C. Sort of freak theatre, isn't it? Queer? 

Francis. It's one of the most artistic shows I 
ever saw in my life. 

Sir C. [seriously] . Artistic. Yes, I was told it 
was queer. 

Francis. Who d'ye think I saw there — -on the 
stage! Little Emily Nixon — you know, from 
Bursley. 

Sir C. What? Sister of Abraham Nixon? 



ACT I 57 

Francis. Yes. Don't you remember when we 
used to go to Nixon's on Saturday nights? She 
would be about five then. Don't you remember 
she used to call you " Tarlie " ? 

Sir C. Oh ! That child ! Nice kid, she used to be. 

Francis. Nice ! She's delightful. I went round 
to the stage-door after, and took her out to tea. 
She's a widow. Hasn't a friend in the world, and 
must be deuced hard up, I should think. But she's 
charming. And as clever as they make 'em. 

Sir C. What's she doing on the stage? 

Francis. Oh ! St. John took her on. She reads 
plays for him. 

Sir C. St. John? Who's St. John? 

Francis. He's the man that's running the 
Prince's Theatre. There's an artist if you like. 
... In spite of weak acting, the way that chap 
got what they call the Celtic glamour over the 
footlights was amazing! — [laughing at himself, 
half aside]. Yes, " amazing," since I'm in the 
Mercury building. By the way, she's coming to 
see you this afternoon. 

Sir C. Who? Emily Nixon? But 

Francis. Now don't be a martyr. It's like this. 
She's been wanting to come and see you for some 
time. But she thought it would be no use — she'd 
heard so much about your being invisible. 

Sir C. What does she want to see me for? 

Francis. Some business, I suppose. I told her 
that of course you'd see her — like a shot. Or 



38 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

any one from Bursley. She asked when. So I 
said I should be here this afternoon and she'd bet- 
ter come then, and I'd arrange it. You might 
send word downstairs that when she comes she's 
to be shown up here at once. 

Sir C. [looking at hint]. No, you've not altered. 
Dispose of me, my boy. I am yours. The entire 
staff is yours. Your wish is law. [Into dicta- 
phone.] Mr. Ricketts. Later. Dramatic critic 
of M. and W. I have appointed Mr. Francis 
Worgan, 11 Hamilton Place. 

Francis. 11 Hamilton Place? I'm at the 
Golden Cross Hotel. 

Sir C. You must leave it then, and come to my 
flat. I want you to see my flat. Look here, about 
screw? 

Francis. Oh ! that doesn't matter. 

Sir C. [into dictaphone]. Salary, fifteen pounds 
a month. [To Francis.] That's quite fair. You 
aren't a Macquoid yet. [Enter Page-boy with 
letters to sign, on a salver.] 

Sir C. [taking letters, to Boy]. Tell the Ser- 
geant that if [To Francis.] What name 

does she go by, Frank? 

Francis. Her husband was Sam Vernon. Mrs. 
Vernon. 

Sir C. [to Boy]. Tell the Sergeant that if a 
Mrs. Vernon calls to see me she is to be shown up 
at once. [Exit Page-boy.] Just let me sign these 
letters. [Begins to sign them. Re-enter Page- 



ACT I 39 

boy.] Hello ! Oh ! it's the tape. Give it to that 
gentleman. Look at it, Frank. [Francis takes 
the slips from the Boy. Exit Boy. Sir Charles 
continues to sign letters.] 

Francis [after looking at the slips]. The For- 
eign Secretary seems to have guessed your ideal 
pretty closely. 

Sir C. What do you mean? 

Francis. Only instead of the boy of twelve he 
said the errand-boy. 

Sir C. What on earth 

Francis [reading] . " In reply Foreign Secre- 
tary said no particle of truth in statements of 
newspaper in question. Our relations with Ger- 
many perfectly harmonious. Every one ought to 
be aware that, after Hong-Kong, Constantinople 
was the worst manufactory of false news in the 
world. Every one ought also to be aware that 
journal referred to was written by errand-boys 
for errand-boys. Cheers ! " 

Sir C. [rising]. Give it here. [Takes slip, 
reads it, and drops it on desk; then goes up to the 
disk-signal and changes it from red to green, then 
comes slowly down stage. With a sudden furious 
outburst.] The cursed swine! 

Francis [tranquilly]. But you said your- 
self 

Sir C. [savagely] . Oh ! go to hell ! 

Francis [tranquilly]. Very well! Very well! 
Who is the Foreign Secretary, by the way? 



40 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. Who is he ? Lord Henry Godwin ! 

Francis. Oh, yes. Wrote a book on Dryden. 

Sir C. I'd Dryden him if I had him here! 

[still savagely']. If I had him here I'd ! 

Whenever he meets me you'd think butter wouldn't 
melt in his mouth. When his idiotic daughter was 
married to that braying ass of a duke, he wrote 
to me to say how pleased she had been with the 
Mercury's special description of the wedding. 

Francis. Wrote to you, did he? 

Sir C. No mention of errand-boys then ! 

Francis. Where do you meet him? 

Sir C. Where do I meet him! At the Club. 
The Whitehall. 

Francis. Do you belong to the Whitehall? 

Sir C. Considering that I was specially elected 
by the Committee under Rule 9, I should say I 
did! Errand-boys! I sent Teddy Marriott spe- 
cially out to Constantinople. I suppose nobody 
will deny he's the showiest of the whole gang of 
specials. Do you know what I pay him? Two 
thousand a year, all his expenses, and a pension of 
five hundred a year to his widow if he's killed on 
duty. What price that? Not much errand-boy 
about that ! Look at his copy. Is it readable, 
or isn't it? 

Francis. But after all, supposing what he says 
isn't true? 

Sir C. Isn't true! Nobody ever said it was! 
hook at the thing! 



ACT I 41 

Francis [looking at paper~\. Well! [Reads.] 
" England and her enemy. Grave situation. Is 
the Government asleep? " All across two columns. 

Sir C. Yes, yes. But what does he say at the 
end? [looking over Francis's shoulder']. "The 
above facts, which I have no wish to unduly em- 
phasise, and which I give with due reserve, are 
the staple of current conversation in certain circles 
here, and I should be failing in my duty if I did 
not bring them to the attention of the British 
public." 

Francis. Why didn't he begin by saying that? 

Sir C. Oh, rot! You don't know what jour- 
nalism is. He said it, and that's enough. We've 
got to give all the news there is going about, and 
we've got to sell the paper. And by God we do 
sell it ! We spend money like water, and we have 
the largest circulation in the country. We please 
the largest public. We pay the highest prices. 
We make the largest profits. You may or may not 
like the paper, but nine hundred thousand of Lord 
Henry Godwin's esteemed fellow-citizens like it. 
And it's a national institution, let me tell you. 
It's a national institution! The swine might just 
as well say at once that the British nation is a 
nation of errand-boys. 

Francis. You may bet he does do, in private. 

Sir C. Let him say it in public, then ! He 
daren't. None of 'em dare. I'm the only one 
that makes no pretences about the British nation. 



42 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

I know what they want, and I give it 'em. And 
what then? Am I to be insulted? Are they to 
be insulted? What's the matter with the British 
nation, anyhow? From the way some of you 
superior people talk, one might think the British 
nation ought to be thankful it's alive. 

Francis. But 

Sir C. [carried away']. I'm told I'm unscru- 
pulous because I " fan the war fever," as it's called, 
so as to send up my circulation. I'm told I want 
a war. Damned nonsense ! Nothing but damned 
nonsense! All I want is for the public to have 
what it wants. It's the public that would like a 
war, not me. The public enjoys the mere thought 
of a war. Proof: my circulations. I'm told I 
pander to the passions of the public. Call it that, 
if you like. It's what everybody is try'mg to do. 
Only I succeed. . . . Mind you, I don't call it 
that. I call it supplying a legitimate demand. 
When you've been to the barber to be shaved, do 
you round on him for pandering to your passions ? 
You superior people make me sick! Sick! Er- 
rand-boys, indeed ! Cheers ! There's a lot of chaps 
in the House that would like to be errand-boys 
of my sort. Cheers, eh! I could have scores of 
the swine to lick my boots clean every morning 
if I wanted ! Scores ! I don't make out to be 
anything except a business man, but that's no 
reason why I should stand the infernal insolence 
of a pack of preposterous hypocrites. 



ACT I 43 



Francis. But- 



Sir C. If I couldn't organise some of their 
departments better than they do, I'd go out and 
sell my own papers in the Strand! Let 'em come 
here, let 'em see my counting-house, and my 
composing-rooms, and my special trains — I'd show 
'em. 

Francis. But 



Sir C. And I'll tell you another thing. [Francis 
gets up and approaches the door.] Where are you 
going to? 

Francis. I'm going to hell. I'll come back 
later, after the monologue. 

Sir C. Hold on ! What were you going to 
say? 

Francis. I was merely going to ask why, if 
you're only a business man, you should worry 
yourself about these superior people. Why not 
leave them alone ? You mentioned flannel ; or was 
it soap? Supposing they do accuse you of hav- 
ing persuaded nine hundred thousand errand-boys 
to buy soap — dash it, you ought to take it as a 
compliment! You aren't logical. 

Sir C. Yes, I am. Let them leave me alone, 
and I'll leave them alone. But they won't. And 
it's getting worse. That's the point. It's getting 
worse. 

Francis [after a pause]. This is really very 
interesting. 

Sir C. [snorting, offended]. Is it? Thanks! 



44 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. Now look here, Charlie. Of course 
we're strangers, but still I'm jour brother. Don't 
be an ass. When I say that this is really very 
interesting, I mean that it is. I'm not laughing at 
you. My attitude to you — and to everybody, as 
far as that goes — is entirely sympathetic. Be- 
cause after all we're all in the same boat. 

Sir C. All in the same boat? How in the same 
boat ? 

Francis. Well, on the same planet. Always 
getting in each other's way. And death staring 
all of us in the face ! You keep on talking about 
superior people. There aren't any. 

Sir C. There's a lot that think they are. 

Francis. And if there are ! They can't do you 
any harm. So why shout? What do you want? 

Sir C. I want to give them beans. 

Francis. Well, from what I know of you, I 
would have been ready to wager that if you 
wanted to give them beans, beans they would in- 
stantly get. Now as regards this Godwin person, 
for example. What's to prevent you from con- 
ferring upon him the gift of beans in the presence 
of your morning audience of nine hundred thou- 
sand, and your afternoon audience of I don't 
know how many? You've got paper, ink, printing- 
presses, special trains, writers 

Sir C. That's just where you're wrong. I 
haven't got a writer in the place that can do what 
I want doing. 



ACT I 45 

Francis. Didn't you mention some one named 
Smythe as being very wonderful? 

Sir C. Yes, he's the chief of the editorial staff 
of the Mercury. But he couldn't do this. You 
don't understand. He could give Lord Henry 
beans for the benefit of our public, and he will ! 
But he couldn't persuade Lord Henry that the 
swine had got beans. He couldn't do it. It's a 
different sort of thing that's needed — not our 
snap, something else. Smythe doesn't know 
enough. 

Francis. Well, why don't you go out and get 
some one who does? 

Sir C. Can't. I've tried. I've had several of 
you superior people in this shop, and at fancy 
salaries too ; but it doesn't work. Either they lose 
their own snap because they think they must imi- 
tate ours, or they come down with stuff that no- 
body else in the blessed building can make head 
or tail of, and that would ruin the paper in a fort- 
night. . . . [In a different tone.~\ How do I 
strike you? — straight, now. 

Francis. How do you strike me? 

Sir C. Yes. As a man. Am I a born fool, or 
something just a bit out of the common in the 
way of ability? 

Francis. Well, it's quite impossible to believe 
that a man is a genius if you've been to school 
with him, or even known his father. But I don't 
mind telling you, in the most unbrotherly way, 



m WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

that if I were meeting you now for the first time, 
I should say you were something in the nature of 
a genius — a peculiar kind, of course — but still • 

Sir C. [quickly]. Well, let me tell you this — 
somehow your intellectual, your superior people 
won't have anything to do with me — anything 
serious, that is ! There seems to be a sort of 
boycott among 'em against me! I don't think I 
have an acquaintance that I don't despise, and I 
haven't got any pals at all. Mind you, I've never 
said as much before to any one. I can put it in 
a nutshell. It's like this. Supposing some people 
are talking about Swinburne, or theosophy, or 
social reform, or any of those things, and I come 
along — well, they immediately change the con- 
versation and begin about motor-cars ! 

Francis. But do you really care about Swin- 
burne — and those things? 

Sir C. I don't know. I've never tried. But 
that's not the point. The point is that I'm just 
as good as they are, and I don't like their attitude. 

Francis. There's only one thing for you to do, 
my boy — get married. 

Sir C. [continuing his train of thought]. I ob- 
ject to being left out in the cold. They've no 
right to do it. 

Francis [repeating his own tone]. There's only 
one thing for you to do, my boy — get married. 

Sir C. [quietly]. I know. 

Francis. Some nice, charming, intellectual 



ACT I 47 

woman. You could have an Al house — first class, 
but not stiff. Tip-top dinners, without a lot of 
silly ceremony. A big drawing-room, and a little 
one opening off it where they could talk to her — 
you know the sort of thing. You'd soon see how 
she'd rope 'em in for you. It would really be 
very interesting to watch. Once get the right sort 
of woman ! 

Sir C. Exactly. But you rattle on as if these 
nice, charming, intellectual women were sitting 
about all over the place waiting for me. They 
aren't. I've never seen one that would do. 

Francis. Well, you won't get where you want 
to be without a woman. So you'd better set to 
and find one. 

Sir C Where? 

Francis. I don't know. . . . Who's Lady 
Calder, for instance? 

Sir C. Lady Calder? Oh! she wouldn't wait 
to be asked twice. 

Francis. What age? 

Sir C. Oh ! younger than me. 

Francis. Much ? 

Sir C. No ! Besides — well, she's a nice woman, 
but there's too much of the county family touch 
about her. Sporting, you see. The late Calder 
lived for nothing but the abolition of wire fences. 
Before I knew where I was I should be let in for 
a steam yacht. She's a widow, of course, and 
that's in her favour [hesitatingly]. 



48 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. Is she intellectual? 

Sir C. She would be if I wanted her to be [half 
sheepishly] . 

Francis. That's no good, no good at all! 
[With a sudden outburst of discovery.] I know 
who you ought to marry. 

SirC. Who? 

Francis. Emily Vernon. 

Sir C. Me marry an actress ! No, thanks ! 

Francis. She isn't an actress. 

Sir C. You said she was. 

Francis. No, I said she was on the stage. She 
can't act for nuts. But she's the very woman for 
you. Pretty ; and awfully decent. Oh ! and she 
can talk, my boy, she can talk. And she knows 
what she's talking about. Intellectual, eh? I bet 
she could wipe the floor with some of these 
women novelists. 

Sir C. And I suppose she hasn't a cent. 

Francis. What does that matter? 

Sir C. Not a bit. 

Francis. You'd never guess she was hard up, 
to look at her. She'd run a big house for you, and 
be even with the best of them. And then she comes 
from Bursley. She's our sort. 

Sir C. Go on ! Go on ! I shall be married to 
her in a minute. 

Francis. No, but really ! 

Sir C. What's she coming here for, to-day, by 
the way? 



ACT I 49 

Francis. I gathered that it was a question 
of [Enter Page-boy. 1 

Page-boy. Mrs. Vernon. 

Sir C. [after a pause]. Show her in! [Enter 
Emily Vernon. Exit Page-boy.] 

Francis [approaching her] . Well, Emily. I'm 
here, you see. We were just talking about you. 
[Shakes hands.] 

Emily. Arithmetic, I suppose? 

Francis. Arithmetic ? 

Emily. Adding up my age. [Taking Sir 
Charles's hand.] So it's you? Exactly the same! 

SirC. Really? 

Emily. Yes. I'm quite relieved. I expected 
something majestic and terrible, something like a 
battleship. I did, truly. Now, what am I to call 
you? 

Sir C. What you used to call me. 

Emily. Charlie ? 

Francis. No, you always called him Tarlie. 

Emily. I'm sure I never did. Every one used 
to say that I talked just like a little woman. The 
fact is, I was born at the wrong end, and I'm 
getting more childish every day. I say, Charlie, 
I do wish I'd known a little earlier that you weren't 
a battleship. I'd worked myself up into a fine 
state of nervousness. 

Sir C. You don't seem nervous. 

Emily. No. But I am. At least, I was. When 
I'm amusing and clever, that's a sure sign I'm 



50 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

very nervous. People say, " How bright she is ! " 
And all the time I'm shivering with fright. When 
I'm quite at my ease I become quite dull. Nat- 
ural idleness, I expect. 

Sir C. Well, suppose we sit down? [They sit.~\ 

Emily. How nice it is of you to see me like 
this ! Now, there was another illusion. I always 
thought you were most frightfully difficult to see. 

Sir C. Not to any one from the Five Towns, 
and especially from Bursley. 

Francis. Don't you believe it! I assure you 
that I only got at him this afternoon over the 
dead bodies of a soldier and five office-boys. 

Emily [to Francis]. Yes, I guessed it was you 
who had made straight the pathway. [To Sir C] 
Francis and I got rather intimate yesterday — 
didn't we, Francis? — over the Yeats play. 

Francis. Very ! Very ! But the butter-scotch 
helped, you know. 

Emily. I never asked you how you thought I 
said my lines, and you never told me. 

Francis. Oh, well. I daresay you've seen what 
Macquoid said of the first performance. He said 
you were as heaven made you ! . . .So you must 
have been very fine. 

Emily. How horrid he is ! He really is horrid ! 
... I suppose I oughtn't to say that to you, 
Charlie, as he's on one of your papers now. Of 
course I know he's generally right. That's what 
makes it so annoying. 



ACT I 51 

Sir C. Say anything you choose. He's no 
longer on our staff. 

Emily. You've dismissed him? 

Sir C. It comes to that. 

Emily. Oh ! Re j oicing in Zion ! A sigh of 
relief will run through the whole profession. And 
who's going to take his place? 

Francis. Me, madam. 

Emily. Well, it's just like a fairy-tale. But I 
wonder if our young and untried friendship will 
stand the awful strain. 

Francis. I've decided what I shall do in regard 
to you. If I can't honestly praise you, I sha'n't 
mention you at all. 

Emily. Charlie, let me beg you to dispense with 
his services at once. He'll be more disliked even 
than Macquoid. [To Francis.] Do you know what 
we're going to produce next — if we can keep open? 
Ford's Broken Heart. 

Francis [recites]. 

" Crowns may flourish and decay ; 
Beauties shine, but fade away; 
Youth may revel, yet it must 
Lie down in a bed of dust." 

Emily. Yes, isn't it lovely? Don't you think 
it's a lovely play, Charlie? 

Sir C. Never read it. Ford, did you say? 
Don't know him. You see, I'm so taken up 



52 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily [sympathetically]. I know how busy you 
must be. But if you could find time to read The 
Broken Heart, I'm sure you'd enjoy it. Has 
Francis told you what I've come about? 

Francis. I was just beginning to explain when 
you arrived and interrupted me. 

Emily. How clumsy of me! [composing her 
features]. Well, it's like this, Charlie [laughs']. 

Sir C. What's the joke? 

Emily. Nothing. Only nervousness! Mere 
hysterics ! I was just thinking how absurd I have 
been to come here and worry you. Francis, do 
explain. 

Francis [to Sir Charles]. The creature is after 
money. 

Emily [with a cry of protest]. You appalling 
and unprincipled bungler! [To Charlie.] It's like 
this. Our chief is a very great man. 

Sir C. St. John — is it? [Turns to Francis as 
if for confirmation.] 

Emily. Yes. We always call him the Chief. 
He's a most fearful brute. He stamps on us and 
curses us, and pays us miserably, miserably, and 
we all adore him, and nobody knows why. He 
simply cares about nothing but his theatre; and 
of course, for producing a play, there's only him. 
But as a man of business — well, it would be no 
use trying to describe what he is as a man of 
business ; an infant in arms could give him lessons 
in business through the post. Now only a fort- 



ACT I 53 

night ago, when the Chancellor of Oxford Uni- 
versity made that appeal for funds, what do you 
think the Chief did? He sent twenty pounds, 
just because he rowed once in the Boat-race. And 
he simply hadn't got twenty pounds. 

Sir C. Clever chap ! 

Emily. Wasn't it splendid of him? The 
Prince's might be a success if somebody with 
money would come in and look after the business 
side, and never let the Chief see a cheque-book. 

Sir C. Isn't it a success? I thought I saw an 
advertisement in the Mercury to-day that the new 
matinees were very successful. 

Emily. Artistically, yes. Artistically, they're 
a record. But the fact has escaped the public. 
We are not at the moment what you'd call turning 
money away. Most of the notices were very bad 
— of course. 

Sir C. Were they? Was the Mercury bad? 
I forget. 

Emily. No, I fancy it was rather nice. 

Sir C. They say a good notice in the Mercury 
will keep any theatre open for at least a month. 

Emily. Personally, I love the Mercury. It's 
so exciting. Like bread and jam, without the 
bread. To me it's a sort of delicious children's 



paper 

Francis [throwing his head back]. There you 
are again, Charles. 

Emily [half -laughing']. I don't know what 



54 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

you're laughing at. I meant that for a compli- 
ment, Charlie. [Sir Charles nods good-humour- 
edly.] Its domestic hints are splendid. But some- 
how the people who would be likely to come to 
the Prince's don't seem to read the Mercury — at 
any rate not for its dramatic criticism. The 
Prince's is a very special theatre, you see. 

Sir C. Superior, you mean? Intellectual? 

Emily [half -mocking]. Oh, yes! It's almost 
like a church. 

Sir C. And this Chief of yours wants some 
one to put money into this church? 

Emily. Yes. We're all of us trying to find 
capital, except him. You see, it's our livelihood. 
If the theatre were to close, where should I be, 
for instance? [Laughs. ] I just happened to 
think of you, Charlie. The idea ran through my 
mind — like a mouse. 

Sir C. How much would be needed? 

Emily. Oh ! I don't know. A thousand. 

Francis. You mean five thousand. 

Emily. Didn't I say five? I quite meant to. 
But my lips went wrong all by themselves. 
• Sir C. [shortly]. Oh! [A pause.] 

Emily. Of course. Now that I'm here I can 
see how absurd it is. I said the Prince's might be 
a success — I mean financially — but honestly I 
don't believe it ever would. It's too good. And 
the Chief is too much of a genius. . . .Oh! 
whenever I think of him sending twenty pounds 



ACT I 55 

to Oxford like that, I wonder why millionaires 
can't attend to those great lumbering University 
things, instead of men like St. John. The thought 
of that twenty pounds always makes me perfectly 
furious. But the Chief's incurable. 

Sir C. Well, I don't mind putting five thou- 
sand into the thing. 

Emily. Really? But — but — supposing you 
lost it? 

Sir C. Well, I don't mind losing it. Besides, 
I've never lost any money yet. 

Francis. A new sensation for him ! 

Sir C. [ignoring Francis's remark]. If St. John 
would let me run him a bit. 

Emily [with a solemn air]. Charlie, do you 
mean to say that you'll put five thousand pounds 
into the Prince's Theatre, just on the strength 
of me coming here and telling you about it? 

Sir C. Yes. 

Emily. When ? 

Sir C. Now. 

Emily. I never heard of such goings-on. I 
hadn't the slightest idea it was so easy as that to 
get five thousand pounds. 

Sir C. It isn't, usually. But this is a special 
case. I should like to help along a really superior 
— er — intellectual 

Emily [heartily']. It is an honour, isn't it, after 
all? But people with money never seem to see 
that. . . . [Finches herself.] Yes, I'm awake. 



56 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Can I go and tell the Chief, now, from you, that 
you're ready to 

Sir C. You can telephone to him this instant, 
if you like [pointing to telephone], 

Emily. No, that won't do. 

Sir C. Why not? 

Emily. They cut off the theatre telephone this 
morning [a brief sobbing catch in her voice], St. 
John would have had to close on Saturday if some- 
thing hadn't turned up. I — I don't know what / 
should have done. I've been at the end of my 
tether once before. [Francis rises, alarmed by 
her symptoms.] I'm all right. I'm all right. 
[Laughs.] 

Sir C. Shall I order up some tea? 

Emily. No, no. I must go and tell him. I'm 
quite all right. I was only thinking how awkward 
it is to alter one's old frocks to this high-waisted 
Directoire style. 

Sir C. [lamely]. Why? 

Emily. Because you can always shorten a skirt, 
but how are you to lengthen it? Well, I must 
go and tell him. 

Francis. So much hurry as all that? 

Emily. Let me go. 

Sir C. But look here. When shall we see you 
again ? 

Francis. Yes, when shall we 

Emily. Can I bring St. John to-morrow 
morning ? 



ACT I 57 

Sir C. Certainly. 

Emily. What time? 

Sir C. Any time. 

Emily. Eleven o'clock? 

Sir C. All right. [Emily shakes hands with 
Sir Charles, appears to be about to speak, but is 
silent; then shakes hands quickly with Francis, 
and exit quickly, under emotion. The men look 
at each other. Pause.] 

Francis. Well ! Have a cigarette ? 

Sir C. [moved]. No, thanks. She must have 
been through a thing or two, by God ! 

Francis. Knocks you about a bit, doesn't it — 
when it comes out sudden like that? I hadn't a 
notion. What do you think of her? All right, 
isn't she? 

Sir C. [nods, after a pause]. She gave me an- 
other idea. 

Francis. Oh? [Lights a cigarette.] 

Sir C. Yes. I'm damned if I don't give a 
hundred thousand pounds to Oxford University. 
Never occurred to me ! That — and running the 
Prince's Theatre 

Francis. But you never went to Oxford. 

Sir C. Do you think they'll make that an ex- 
cuse for refusing it? 



[Curtain.] 



ACT II 

Notes on Characters in this Act 

Holt St. John. — Theatrical manager. A man of the finest 
artistic taste. Otherwise a brute, especially in manner. A 
biggish man. He cares for nothing and nobody when his 
artistic ideas are at stake. Occasionally there is something 
wistful in his voice. Age about 50. 

Henry Cleland. — Stage-manager. A little, obsequious man, 
with sharp features. A time-server, and capable of du- 
plicity. Profound admirer of his wife. Age 46. 

Mrs. Cleland (Henrietta Blackwood). — A fine actress. 
Too good for the public. Wearing out after a long and 
arduous career; but she can still play virgins. Disillusioned, 
naturally. Isn't quite sure whether she has ever been a 
genuine " star " or not, in the eyes of the public. Kind- 
hearted. Great admiration for St. John. Age unknown. 

Same scene. Time: Monday morning. (Dish, 
blue.) Sir Charles is alone, dictating into the 
dictaphone. 

Sir C. I must have a reply by return or it is 
off. Yours faithfully. Lord Rugby. My dear 
Rugby, All my excuses for not coming round last 
night to the smoker. I was prevented by the most 
urgent business. You never know in my trade 
what may turn up. See you, I suppose, at the 
Committee — [Enter Kendrick and Emily Ver- 
non, R.~\ 

58 



ACT II 59 

Sir C. [finishing quickly] — meeting of the A.C. 
next Thursday. Yours sincerely. [He jumps 

UP-] 

Kendrick. I met Mrs. Vernon in the street and 
piloted her up. 

Sir C. [nervous, shaking hands with Emily']. 
Good morning. Have this chair, will you? 

Emily [questioningly]. No worse for the ad- 
venture ? 

Sir C. [smiles awkwardly]. Oh, no I 

Kendrick [to Sir Charles]. I say — have you 
had the figures of the Sunday Morning News? 

SirC. No. 

Kendrick. You were right about that " Crimes 
of Passion " series, by Jove ! Thirty-six thousand 
up! Twenty-five thousand up last week! What 
about it, eh? I came across a ripping one yes- 
terday. The Halifax murder, in 1886 ; began with 
a ripping adultery. I just wanted to ask you 

Sir C. [slightly disturbed]. All right! All 
right ! I've got a meeting on here at twelve. Half 
a moment! [Hastens to door, L., and opens it.] 
I say, Frank. Oh ! you are there ! Come and look 
after Mrs. Vernon. [To Emily.] Excuse me two 
seconds, will you? Now, Kendrick ! [Exeunt 
Sir Charles and Kendrick, R. Enter Francis tak- 
ing off his gloves.] 

Francis. Well, Emily. [They shake hands.] 

Emily. You seem to be quite installed here. 

Francis, I'm the darling of the place. My 



60 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

dramatic criticism is said to be snappy without 
being vicious. And now I've been appointed head 
of the obituary department, at my own request. 
Add this to my chairmanship of the Prince's 
Theatre, Limited 

Emily. Why the obituary department? 

Francis. It seemed to give the widest scope for 
humour. And you know, humour is just what 
this place is short of. 

Emily. I thought you published lots of comic 
papers. 

Francis. Have you ever seen one of our comic 
papers ? 

Emily. No. 

Francis. Well, have a look at one. . . . No, 
that's hardly friendly. Don't have a look at one. 

Emily. And is that your room now? [indicat- 
ing door, L.~\. 

Francis. That is my room. I'm on the very 
steps of the throne. 

Emily. I should never have guessed that you 
would settle down here. 

Francis [mock-confidentially, in a lower 'voice']. 
I sha'n't. My only rule is never to settle down. 
But as an amateur of human nature I couldn't 
miss such a unique opportunity of studying the 
English mind as fed by the Worgan Press, and 
the English ideal as mirrored in the British 
Theatre. Could I? I shall probably give myself 
a year of this excitement. More would not be 



ACT II 61 

good for me. I suppose you're here for the 
meeting? 

Emily. Yes. It seems it isn't exactly a formal 
meeting. 

Francis. Merely a chat, I'm told. Instead of 
being chairman I shall be just a plain person, like 
you or Charlie or the Chief. 

Emily [quietly']. Charlie was talking to me 
about it yesterday. 

Francis [slightly lifting his eyebrows]. Oh! 
Sunday ! 

Emily [looking away from Francis]. He called 
to see me. 

Francis. Where ? 

Emily. The natural place. My rooms. Where 
should you have called if you'd wanted to see 
me? . . . However, I'll be candid with you. I 
was just as startled as you are — more, even! 

Francis. I'm — why should you be startled? 
Unless, of course, it's a nunnery that you in- 
habit. 

Emily. Put yourself in the position of the poor 
but virtuous actress spending a pleasant Sunday 
afternoon washing imitation lace — when in walks 
Sir Charles Worgan, millionaire. 

Francis. But, after all, Charlie is only Charlie. 

Emily. That's where you're wrong. He's a 
good deal more than Charlie. So I concealed the 
lace. 

Francis. Did he come in the motor? 



62 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily. He came on his feet. Why? 

Francis. Nothing. Only he started out in the 
motor. 

Emily. I daresay it broke down. 

Francis. And he came back in it. 

Emily [impatiently]. Indeed! Well, there's 
another mystery of a motor-car, that's all! The 
point is that he called to consult me. 

Francis. What about? 

Emily. About the next production at the 
Prince's. You see, I have always read plays for 
the Chief. That's really how the Chief came to 
take me on, and I suppose that's why they gave 
me a share in the company and called me a di- 
rector. He seemed to be quite disturbed. 

Francis. Who ? Charlie ? 

Emily. Yes. He said he understood that the 
next production was to be The Merchant of 
Venice. 

Francis. So it was. 

Emily. The Chief appears to be changing his 
mind. Just recently he's read The Lion's Share — 
that Welsh piece by Lloyd Morgan. 

Francis. Stage Society? * 

Emily. Yes. He went to one of the rehearsals, 
and he's tremendously keen on it. 

Francis. Really! [Taking tickets and pro- 
gramme from his pocket. ~\ Yes. That's it. I'm 
going to see it this afternoon. They've sent me 
a couple of tickets. Care to come? 



ACT II 63 

Emily. You needn't be so stuck up with your 
two tickets. I went last night. 

Francis. Why, you informed me not long since 
that it was impossible to get tickets for Sun- 
day night performances of the Stage Society. 
You said even duchesses were glad to crowd 
into the gallery, and critics hadn't a dog's 
chance. 

Emily. Charles had got tickets somehow. He 
left a stall for me and asked me if I'd go. He 
told me he might be there himself, but he wasn't 
sure. 

Francis. And was he? 

Emily. Yes. [With a trace of self-conscious- 
ness, after a pause. ~\ He had the next stall to 
mine. 

Francis [nodding his head~\. Extraordinary 
how shy that youth is about being intellectual! 
He told me he was going to a smoking-concert. 
Was it a success — the Welsh thing? 

Emily. Oh, yes. But that's nothing. Any- 
thing would be a success in London on Sunday 
night. People are so grateful. 

Francis. Then you didn't like it? 

Emily. On the contrary. I adored it. 

Francis. Did Charlie? 

Emily [shakes her head; a little pause]. He 
didn't see it. 

Francis. I suppose it's one of those disagree- 
able plays, as we say in the Mercury — the disas- 



64 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

trous effect of French influence on the Noncon- 
formist mind. 

Emily. It was so real that I could have 

Francis. You confirm my worst suspicions. 

Emily [smiling]. You're bound to enjoy it. 

Francis. But Charlie didn't? 

Emily. And yet, you know, he is clever — don't 
you think so? Just look at what he's done with 
the Prince's! Don't you think he's frightfully 
clever? 

Francis. Clever isn't the word. 

Emily. What is the word? 

Francis. There isn't a word. I've lived with 
Charlie now for four months, and I've looked care- 
fully through the dictionary, and I've satisfied 
myself that there isn't a word. Charlie baffles. 

Emily. Yes, that's why he's so fascinating. I 

was only thinking, as I walked back last night 

[stopping; in a different voice]. I may as well 
tell you we walked back together after the theatre 
to my square. It was such a lovely night. 

Francis. It was. [Enter Page-boy with St. 
John.] 

Page-boy. Mr. St. John. [Exit.] 

Francis [rising]. Good morning, St. John. 
How are you? 

St. John. Mondayish. [To Emily.] Hello! 
What are you doing here? 

Emily [shaking hands with him]. Good morn- 
ing, Chief. Sir Charles asked me to come. 



ACT II 65 

St. John [displeased] . Oh ! [Enter Sir Charles, 
R., quickly. ] 

Sir C. Morning, St. John [shakes hands']. 
Thanks for being so prompt. 

St. John. I thought you wanted to have a chat 
with me? 

Sw C. So I do. But it occurred to me after- 
wards there couldn't be any harm in asking all the 
other directors. [He takes record out of dicta- 
phone.] 

St. John. Do you mean to say Cleland and his 
wife are coming? 

Sir C. Well, my dear St. John, surely your 
stage-manager and your leading lady ought to be 
consulted, if any one ought, especially as they're 
directors. 

St. John. Is this a board meeting, or isn't it? 
If it is, why hasn't it been properly summoned? 
I don't set up as a cast-iron devotee of business 
rules, but 

Sir C. Not strictly a board meeting. 

Francis. Rather, a meeting of the board. [To 
Sir Charles.] There's no " chair," I take it? 

Sir C. No, no; quite unnecessary. Now, St. 
John, I just want to state a few things [looking 
at clock]. Well, of course if the Clelands are late, 
we can't help it. Anyhow — [pause, as if making 
up his mind] I've been going into the accounts, 
and it may be said that we've turned the corner — 
but not very far. There's been a profit of about 



66 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

a hundred pounds on the last three months — since 
the company was definitely formed. A hundred 
pounds in three months is not much. It will just 
pay the interest on the debentures. Of course it 
would have been larger but for the matinees of 
The Broken Heart. On the other hand, it would 
have been smaller — in fact there would have been 
a loss — if we had paid proper salaries. The 
directors get nothing, as directors. Mr. Cleland 
and Miss Henrietta Blackwood accept rather 
nominal salaries, partly because they're together, 
but no doubt partly on account of Mrs. Cleland's 
— er — advancing age; the other members of the 
troupe are equally ill-paid. As for you, St. John, 
your remuneration as manager is — well, in- 
adequate. 

St. John. Don't you worry about that. You 
can put it that what I receive is for playing a 
small part now and then. For my producing, 
there's no question of adequate remuneration. 
Couldn't be ! Frohman himself couldn't re- 
munerate me adequately for my producing! I'm 
the greatest producer on earth. Every one 
knows that. 

Sir C. Well, there it is! All I want to point 
out is that we are at a critical period in our career. 
We mustn't be too satisfied with ourselves. We 
must consolidate our position. The future de- 
pends on what we do now. Our present bill will 
probably run another couple of months. 



ACT II 67 

St. John, It may, or it mayn't. I never like to 
run a piece out. I want to have something else 
ready in three weeks, and I can do it. 

Sir C. That's just what I'm anxious to discuss. 
Do you really mean that you can do a Shake- 
spearean production in three weeks? 

St. John. I've decided against The Merchant 
of Venice. I thought you understood that. I'm 
going to do The Lion's Share. I saw it last night, 
and I practically arranged with the author — Lloyd 
Morgan, or Morgan Lloyd, or whatever his name 
is. It's a great thing. Let everybody take notice 
of what I say ! It's a great thing ! 

Sir C. I also saw it last night. It may or may 
not be a great thing — I don't pretend to be a 
judge 

St. John. That's all right, then. I do. 

Sir C. But I pretend to be a judge of what 
will succeed. And I don't think The Lion's Share 
would succeed. I'm quite sure it isn't a certainty. 

St. John. It's no part of my scheme to produce 
certainties. As far as that goes, I've never met 
one. More money has been lost on certainties than 
would pay off the bally National Debt. My 
scheme is to produce masterpieces. 

Sir C. And if the public won't come to see 
them? 

St. John, So much the worse for the public! 
The loss is theirs ! 

Sir C. It seems to me the loss will also be ours. 



68 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis [soothingly]. St. John means that the 
public and ourselves will share the loss. But 
whereas we shall know exactly how much we have 
lost, the public will be under the disadvantage of 
never guessing that it has lost anything at all. 

Sir C. [in a low tone to Francis]. Just let me 
speak, will you? [Francis gives a courteous hu- 
morous smile of consent.] 

St. John. Besides, who says the public won't 



comer 



Sir C. I do. Another thing — The Lion's Share 
contains no decent part for Miss Blackwood. 

St. John, I can't help that. At my theatre the 
company has got to fit the play. Let the old girl 
have a rest. God knows she's been working like 
a camel. [Enter Page-boy with Mr. and Mrs. 
Cleland.] 

Sir C. [to Page-boy]. Boy! [Page-boy comes 
round to Sir Charles and waits.] 

Mrs. C. I do hope we aren't late. The fact is 
we met my dear old father in the Strand. I 
hadn't seen him for months, and it gave me quite 
a turn. How d'ye do, Sir Charles? [greeting 
him] . 

Cleland [who lias been shaking hands round; 
quietly to Sir Charles]. I got your letter this 
morning. 

Sir C. [nods]. Now, Mrs. Cleland — have this 
chair. St. John is thinking of producing a play 
with no part for you. What do you say to that? 



ACT II 69 

[Hands dictaphone records to Page-boy. Exit 
Page-boy. ] 

Mrs. C. [after shaking hands round and kissing 
Emily]. I know what I should have said twenty 
years ago. But I often say nowadays that my 
idea of bliss is a dozen oysters and go to bed 
comfortably at ten o'clock. So long as you pay 
my salary, I don't mind. Salaries have been so 
very regular lately, I wouldn't like it disturbed. 
Would you, my dear? [to Emily]. 

Sir C The question is, how long we should be 
able to keep on paying salaries with you out of 
the bill. 

Mrs. C. Now that's very nice of you, Sir 
Charles. 

Cleland [rubbing his hands]. Lion's Share, I 
suppose you're talking about? 

Sir C. What's your view of this wonderful 
piece, Cleland? 

Cleland [askance at St. John]. Well, I only 
saw the dress-rehearsal. Of course it's clever, un- 
doubtedly clever. It may please the Stage So- 
ciety; but if you ask me my frank opinion 

St. John. Sam's opinion is worth nothing at 
all, especially if it's frank. When he tries to imi- 
tate me it isn't always so bad. I didn't engage 
Sam as a connoisseur. I engaged him because his 
wife can act 

Mrs. C. My old father said to me this morn- 
ing, " Henrietta," he says, " you and I are the 



70 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

only members of the Blackwood family that can 
really act. I could act a railway engine. And 
I believe you could, too," he says. Didn't he, Sam? 
Excuse me, Chief. 

St. John. And also because he's the only stage- 
manager in London who'll do what you tell him 
without any damned improvements of his own. 
But as for his views — they are invariably vul- 
gar. Sam would make a fortune if he were let 
alone. 

Cleland. I should. Just give me a chance. 

St. John. Not much, Sammy ! Not if I know 
it! 

Sir C. What is your opinion of The Lion's 
Share, Mrs. Cleland? 

Mrs. C. [indignant]. Don't ask me. How 
should I know? My own nephew's playing in it, 
but could he get a seat for me for last night? 
No ! I've been before the London public for 
twenty-six years, but could I get in on my card? 
No. 

Francis. If you'll give me the pleasure of your 
company this afternoon, Mrs. Cleland, I've got a 
couple of stalls. 

Mrs. C. Much obliged, Mr. Worgan. But if 
I can't go on Sunday I don't go at all. I'm not 
proud; but either I'm Henrietta Blackwood or 
I'm not ! At least, that's how I look at it. 

Sir C. Mrs. Vernon has seen the play 

Mrs. C. Congratulations, my dear! 



ACT II 71 

Sir C. But I haven't yet asked her views, 
formally 

St. John. You needn't, Sir Charles. I feel 
somehow that I can struggle on without 'em. 

Sir C. But she was put on the Board simply 
because she'd always been used to reading plays 
for you ! How often have you said what fine 
taste she has ! 

St. John. That's true. I value her opinion — 
when I want it. But in this case my mind is 
made up. You were sitting together last night, 
you two ! I saw you. 

Sir C. That was a mere accident. 

St. John. Agreed! Accidents will happen. 
[Hums an air.~\ 

Sir C. [controlling himself]. As I said before, 
I don't pretend to be a judge 

St. John. As I said before, I do. That about 
settles that, doesn't it? 

Sir C. No [gravely and obstinately]. Speak- 
ing simply as a member of the public, my objec- 
tions to the piece, if only I could put them 
properly — of course it's not my line to explain 

St. John. Don't let that trouble you. I can 
explain your objections. You've got three objec- 
tions. The first is that this play is true to life, 
the second is that it's original, and the third is 
that it's beautiful. You're a bold financier, but 
you're afraid of beauty; you detest originality; 
and as for truth, it makes you hold your nose. 



n WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Do you think I don't know all about your con- 
founded objections? I'm turned fifty. I've spent 
a quarter of a century in trying to make this 
damned town appreciate beauty, and though I've 
succeeded once or twice, the broad result is that I 
can't look my greengrocer in the face. But I 
wouldn't swop places with you. It would be like 
being blind and deaf. [Suddenly to Francis, 
as to one who understands.] I wish you'd 
seen The Lion's Share. I know what you'd 
say! 

Sir C. [quickly]. Come now, St. John, what- 
ever the private opinions of any of us may be, I 
am quite sure we shall all be agreed that this won- 
derful play of yours won't please the public. 
[Looks at Emily, as if for confirmation.] It 
would be bound to be a frost. . . . You your- 
self 

St. John [springing up~\. Nothing of the kind ! 
Nothing of the kind! No one ever caught me 
saying that any play on earth would be a frost. 
No really new thing ever yet succeeded but what 
all the blessed wiseacres who know the public best 
swore it would be a rank failure. Let me tell you 
that in the end you chaps are always wrong. 
Public taste is continually changing. Is it you 
chaps who change it? Not much, by God! It's 
we who change it. But before we can begin to 
work, we must get past a pack of infernal rotters 
who say they have their finger on the public pulse. 



ACT II 73 

[More quietly.'] Well, we do get past, that's one 
comfort. 

Mrs. C. Oh, Chief! How you carry on, to be 
sure ! It's worse than a rehearsal. And this isn't 
your stage, you know. 

Sir C. [smiling]. That's all right, that's all 
right. St. John is always enthusiastic. A month 
ago he was just as enthusiastic for Shakespeare. 

St. John. Yes, but then I hadn't got my eye on 
a good modern piece. 

Sir C. I suppose you'll admit that The Lion's 
Share is not as good a play as The Merchant of 
Venice. I've been reading The Merchant of Venice 
myself. A most interesting old play! Now 
there's beauty, to use your own word, if you 
like. 

St. John. Sudden discovery of a hitherto neg- 
lected author by the proprietor of the Daily 
Mercury. 

Sir C. All this is not argument. 

St. John. My excellent Sir Charles, any ass of 
an actor-manager can produce Shakespeare. 

Francis. Excuse me, St. John, I don't wish to 
interrupt a duel, but you told me exactly the con- 
trary not long since. You said there wasn't an 
actor-manager in London who understood Shake- 
speare enough to make even a decent call-boy in 
a Shakespearean production. 

St. John. And I was right. Some day I'll show 
'em. But I'm not going to spend my time on 



74 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Shakespeare when I've got a first-class modern 
production all waiting. It's the Shakespeares of 
the future that I'm on. 

Sir C. Now seriously, St. John [A pause.] 

Cleland. The wife is a really tremendous Portia, 
Chief. Aren't you, Henrietta? 

Mrs. C. He knows. He saw me at the old 
Novelty in '89. 

Sir C. And I was thinking that Jessica was the 
very part for Mrs. Vernon — I hope you won't 
deny that it's about time Mrs. Vernon had a 
decent show [half laughing]. 

St. John [coldly]. Since you've mentioned it, I 
may as well tell you I've decided that Mrs. Ver- 
non must leave the Prince's company. 

Emily. Chief — you aren't [stops]. 

Sir C. [annoyed]. Now, what's this? [Gen- 
eral surprise.] 

St. John. I'm not satisfied with her work. The 
truth is, I never was. I was taken by her en- 
thusiasm for a good thing. But what's that got 
to do with acting? 

Emily [deeply moved]. You aren't going to 
throw me over? I've always tried my very best. 
What do you think I shall do if you throw me 
over? 

St. John. I don't know. Whatever you do you 
oughtn't to act any more. Because it ain't your 
line. You're simply painful in The Mayor of 
Casterbridge, and no one knows it better than you. 



ACT II 75 

Mrs. C. Don't listen to him, Emily. 

St. John [growling']. You needn't think I'm 
not sorry for her. But I won't have all my pro- 
ductions messed up for evermore just because I've 
been unfortunate enough to engage an actress who 
can't act. I want a fine production, and I mean 
to have it. I don't care twopence for anything 
else. I'm not a philanthropist. I'm a brute. 
Everybody knows that. [Emily moves away from 
the others and tries to control herself.] 

Sir C. You're not going to 

St. John [challenging him with a stiff look]. 
I'm not going to have any favourites in the com- 
pany. 

Sir C. Favourites? 

St. John. Yes, favourites. I mean nothing 
offensive. But I've had this on my mind some 
time. You began the subject. Now you know! 

Sir C. But Mrs. Vernon is a director of the 
company. 

St. John. Who made her a director of the 
company? You did; just as you made your 
brother the nominal chairman. Not that I mind 
that in the least. She can be a director of forty 
companies so long as she doesn't act on my stage. 

Sir C. Your stage? 

St. John. My stage. 

Sir C. The company's stage. 

St. John. Damn the company ! 

Sir C. You can't damn the company. The 



76 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

company saved you when you never expected to 
be saved. The company put you on your legs, 
and put the theatre on its legs. The company 
gave you two thousand pounds' worth of shares 
for a goodwill that was worth nothing. The 
company gave shares to Mr. Cleland and Miss 
Blackwood for arrears of salary, and the same to 
Mrs. Vernon. My brother and I bought shares. 
On all these shares the company will pay good 
interest, if only a little common-sense is shown. 
Surely Mrs. Vernon has deserved better of you 
than to be dismissed! Without her 

St. John. Without her I shouldn't have had 
your help. 

Sir C. Exactly, since you care to put it that 
way. 

St. John. Well, since I care to put it that way, 
Sir Charles, I don't know that I'm so desperately 
grateful. What have you done, after all? You 
insisted on an orchestra, to keep the audience 
from thinking. You invented a costume for the 
programme girls and made a rule that they must 
be under twenty-five and pretty, and you put up 
the price of the programmes from twopence to 
sixpence. You plastered the West End all over 
with coloured posters that would make a crocodile 
swoon. And that's about all. 

Sir C. I put order into the concern. And I 
gave you the support of all my journals, including 
the most powerful daily paper in London. 



ACT II 77 

St. John. Thank you for nothing ! The most 
powerful daily paper in London has got me 
laughed at by all my friends. I'm not likely to 
forget the morning after the first performance of 
The Broken Heart, when the most powerful daily 
paper in London talked for three-quarters of a 
column about the essential, English, breezy, 
healthy purity of the Elizabethan drama. 

Mrs. C. I remember they called me Harriet 
instead of Henrietta. 

Francis. A misprint. [To St. John] It was all 
a misprint. 

Sir C. [quietly]. Still, the public comes, now. 

St. John. Yes, and what a public ! 

Sir C There's only one sort of public. It's 
the sort that pays. 

St. John. Let it fork it out then, and accept 
what I choose to give it! I'll choose my plays, 
and I'll choose my players. I'm sorry for Emily, 
but I can't help it. So long as I'm the manager, 
I'll be the manager. I'll keep a free hand. 

Sir C. [threateningly]. If you wanted to keep 
a free hand, you ought not to have accepted my 
money. 

St. John. Look here, Sir Charles, don't you try 
to come the millionaire over me. You may be 
a millionaire in your private capacity, but when 
you discuss the theatre with me you're sim- 
ply a man who doesn't know what he's talking 
about. 



78 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Mrs. C. Chief, you're losing your temper. 

St. John. Shut up ! 

Sir C. You are the manager, but I'm the 
largest shareholder, and I hold all the debentures. 
I can always outvote you. I won't consent to 
Shakespeare being shelved. Shakespeare was your 
own idea, not mine. Why can't you stick to it? 
Why do you want to produce a morbid play that 
must fail? You may take it from me, I've got no 
use for a frost. Every one knows I'm in the 
Prince's. I don't choose to be associated with 
failures. And, above all, I won't consent to the 
dismissal of Mrs. Vernon. Is that clear? 

St. John [approaching him, very quietly]. Do 
you want to get rid of me? 

Sir C. No. I only want you to behave reason- 
ably. 

St. John, Oh ! That's all you want, is it? Will 
you buy me out? 

Sir C. Certainly, if you wish it. 

St. John [furiously]. Well, then, do! I re- 
sign! See? I resign. You've saved a fine enter- 
prise, and ruined .it at the same time. Cleland's 
your man. Put your two wooden heads together, 
and you're bound to make a howling success of the 
Prince's. Cleland'll carry out your theories for 
you. Cleland's notion of realism in art is potted 
primroses on a river's brim. Get at it at once. 
In six months you'll be playing musical comedy 
at the Prince's — \_pause~\ and " house full " over 



ACT II 79 

the portico [scornfully] — a thing that's never 
been seen in my time ! . . . I resign. 

Sir C. You aren't serious. 

St. John. Do you take me for a bally clown? 
[Solemnly.] I'm always serious. [To Mrs. Cle- 
land.] Good-bye, old girl ! [Exit back, with a vio- 
lent banging of the door.] 

Mrs. C. [with a passionate outburst, rising]. 
St. John! 

Cleland [to his wife]. Sit down, and be quiet. 

Mrs. C. [half hysterical]. Loose me! St. John! 
[She rushes out after him, crying. Noises in the 
corridor.] 

Sir C. [to Francis]. Just go and quieten them, 
will you? There'll be a regular scene out there in 
a minute. We can't have the whole building up- 
set. 

Francis. That's all very well 

Sir C. [insisting]. There's a good fellow. 
[Exit Francis.] I say, Cleland. 

Cleland. I'll look after her. 

Sir C. [a little anxiously]. She won't throw us 
over? 

Cleland [confidently]. Leave that to me. 

Sir C. [after a glance at Emily], I'll telephone 
you later in the day with an appointment. I 
haven't time now. 

Cleland. Good! [Shakes hands.] Splendid, 
Sir Charles. [Exit.] 

Emily. I must go too [rising]. 



80 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. Here! Wait a bit. Sit down half a 
minute. You can't go like that. 

Emily \_sits~\. I don't suppose there ever was 
another man as rude as the Chief. What a brute! 
But he's always the same — simply never cares for 
anything except his own ideas. There's nothing 
he wouldn't sacrifice for them. Nothing! 

Sir C. Well, he'd got me to deal with ! 

Emily. The thing that surprised me most was 
the way you kept your temper. 

Sir C. Oh! that's nothing! I can generally 
keep my temper when I see the other man is losing 
his. It was only when he began talking about 
favourites that I nearly let myself go. 

Emily. Seeing us together last night at the 
theatre — that must have made him think we'd been 
plotting against him. 

Sir C. And yet we hadn't, had we? I don't 
know even now what you really think about that 
play. 

Emily. The Lion's Share? I quite agree with 
you that it wouldn't have a chance with the 
public. 

Sir C. But you think it's a fine play? 

Emily. Why do you think I think that ? 

Sir C. Well, from what you said last night. 

Emily. I was careful not to say. We both 
rather kept off it, J thought. 

Sir C. Then from what you didn't say. 

Emily. Yes, I think it's fine. 



ACT II 81 

Sir C. Do you? [genuinely puzzled]. And you 
think Francis'll like it too? 

Emily. Yes. 

Sir C. Queer! I suppose there must be some- 
thing in it. I wish you'd explain it to me — I 
mean what you see in it. 

Emily. Oh ! I can't explain. It's just a matter 
of taste. 

Sir C. You explained lots of things in The 
Merchant of Venice, anyway. 

Emily. Oh, Charlie, I didn't! I only just 

Sir C. Yes, you did. In fact, you made me 
quite keen on it. That's one reason why I was 
determined not to let St. John throw it over. But 
if The Merchant of Venice were a great success, 
I wouldn't mind The Lion's Share being done at 
matinees. 

Emily. That wouldn't satisfy him. He'd never 
give way. And what's more, he'd never give way 
about me. [Thoughtfully.] He's quite right, you 
know. I can't act [smiles']. I expect it's because 
I'm too intellectual. 

Sir C. Of course you can act. 

Emily. How do you know? You've never 
seen me. 

Sir C. I'm sure you can. 

Emily. And what's going to happen now? 

Sir C. Happen? Nothing! The theatre will 
go on. Do you think I can't run a theatre? I 
knew there'd be a rumpus. In fact, I brought it 



82 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

on, because things were bound to come to a crisis 
between St. John and me sooner or later, and 
sooner is always best. So I came to a clear under- 
standing with Cleland in advance. 

Emily. Did you? 

Sir C. Yes. I had to know exactly where I 
stood. And Cleland is a very good man. You'll 
see. I'll make that theatre hum. 

Emily. It was awfully good of you, sticking 
up for me. 

Sir C. Not at all. I'll sign you a contract for 
three years if you like. 

Emily [nervously]. Well, of course I'm not in 
a position to refuse offers of that kind. But really 
you are awfully kind. I must tell you — I'd no 
idea you were so good-natured. Most people have 
got an entirely wrong notion of you. / had at 
the start. 

Sir C. How? 

Emily. They think you're as hard as nails. 
And the truth is you're fearfully good-natured. 

Sir C. No, I'm not. 

Emily. Well, look how you've behaved to me! 
I can't thank you, you know. I never could thank 
any one for anything — anything serious, that is. 

Sir C. [pleased at this revelation; confiden- 
tially]. That's funny, now! I'm just the same. 
Whenever I have to thank people I always begin to 
blush, and I feel awkward. 

Emily. I know, I know. [After a pause.] And 



ACT II 83 

yet, I ought to thank you. This makes twice 
you've saved me. 

Sir C. Saved you? What are you talking 
about ? 

Emily. Well, what do you suppose I should 
have done if you and Francis hadn't been in the 
affair and St. John had had his way? Where 
should I have been? I've got nothing to fall back 
on. I've been alone for four years now, and every 
penny I've spent I've had to earn. And till this 
year I never made a hundred and twenty pounds 
in a single year. I wasn't brought up to earn, 
that's why. I'm very conceited, and if you ask 
me I think I'm a fairly finished sort of article; 
but I can't do anything that people want doing. 
You don't know what I've been through. No one 
knows except me. You don't know what you've 
saved me from. No ! I couldn't have begun that 
frightful struggle over again, I couldn't have 
faced it. It's too disgusting, too humiliating — I 
should have 

Sir C. [disturbed]. But look here, Emily 



Emily. Yes, I know! One oughtn't to speak 
like that. It makes everybody so uncomfortable. 
Never look back at a danger that's passed ! And 
yet — the first time I saw you here, and I managed 

to joke about altering frocks Never shall I 

forget my relief; it was painful how glad I was! 
I'm always looking back at that. . . . And then, 
to-day, without a moment's warning! Oh, dear! 



84 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

. . . And now you say a contract for three years ! 
[Gives a great sigh of relief.] Why, it's heaven; 
it's simply just Paradise! 

Sir C. [going to door, R., and opening if]. I 
say, Kendrick. Just see I'm not disturbed, will 
you? Put a boy outside my door. 

Kendrick [off ]. All right! Meeting still on ! 

Sir C. Yes. [He puts red disk up, and then 
comes back to Emily.] Now — er — look here, of 
course I'm rather peculiar; I can only do things 
in my own way; but look here — there are one 
or two things I want to talk to you about. To 
begin with, do you know why I've never been to 
a performance at the Prince's when you were in 
the cast? 

Emily. No. 

Sir C. Well, it was because I didn't want to 
see you acting in public. [Walks about.] 

Emily. But 

Sir C. I'm like that, that's all. I knew you 
were obliged to earn your living, but I couldn't 
stand seeing you doing it on the stage. You may 
call it sentimental. I don't know. I'm just tell- 
ing you. There's another thing. Do you know 
why I insisted on you and old woman Cleland be- 
ing on the Board of Directors? 

Emily [shakes her head]. I don't think any- 
body quite understood that. 

Sir C. Well, it was because I thought if you 
were on the Board I should have good oppor- 



ACT II 85 

tunities of seeing you without being forced to 
make them. I simply added Mrs. Cleland as a 
cover for you, so that you wouldn't look too con- 
spicuous. What price that for a scheme? 

Emily. Now, Charlie, don't go and make me 
feel awkward. 

Sir C. You've got to feel awkward. And so 
have I. I've told you those two things so that 
you can't say I'm being sudden. I'm putting the 
matter before you in a straightforward way. I 
want you to marry me. 

Emily. Charlie ! 

Sir C. That's what it is. I know I'm peculiar, 
but I can't help it — I can't say what I want to say. 
I mean I can't bring myself to say it. Now, for 
instance, there's that word " love." Curious thing 
— I can't use it ! When I hear of men saying to 
women, " I love you," I always think to myself, 
" Well, I couldn't say it." Don't know why ! It 
would be as much as I could do to say, " I'm 
awfully fond of you." And I couldn't say even 
that without being as awkward as if I were giving 
thanks. And yet I am. 

Emily. You are what? 

Sir C. You know what. Of course if we 
hadn't been born in the same town, and almost in 
the same street, I expect I shouldn't have been 
able to talk like this to you. I should have had 
to be most rottenly artificial. Understand me, 
don't you? 



86 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily. Perfectly. I'm just the same. 

Sir C. Are you? That's all right then. I 
suppose everybody from the Five Towns is. Well, 
what do you say? 

Emily. It's so sudden. 

Sir C. Oh ! damn it all, Emily. That's really 
a bit too thick, that is ! After what I've told you ! 
Are you going to sit there and stick me out 
that you'd no idea I was above a bit gone on 
you? 

Emily. I — Charlie, you are awful ! 

Sir C. Did the idea ever occur to you that I 
might ask you to marry me? Or didn't it? 

Emily [after a pause]. As questions are being 
put — when you got up this morning did you in- 
tend to propose to me to-day? 

Sir C. No. But every morning I say to myself, 
" One of these days I shall have to do it." 

Emily. When did you make your mind up to 
do it to-day? 

Sir C. About five minutes ago. 

Emily. Why ? 

Sir C. Because of the way you talked. How 
do I know? Because you made me feel so queer. 
I couldn't bear for another minute the notion of 
you worrying yourself to death about a living and 

the future, while all the time I — I There are 

some things I can not stand. And one of 'em is 
your worrying about starvation. . . . It's quite 
true, I am as hard as nails, but I'm all right. No- 



ACT II 87 

body else can say it for me, so I must say it myself. 
I'm all right 

Emily [leaning forward}. How much are you 
worth? 

Sir C. About a million and a quarter. 

Emily. Well, can't you see how ridiculous it is, 
you marrying me? I haven't a cent. 

Sir C. Now, listen here, Emily. If you're 
going to talk nonsense we'll chuck it. What in 
the name of Heaven does it matter to me if you 
haven't a cent? 

Emily. I — I don't know 

Sir C. No. I should imagine you didn't ! 

Emily. You could marry — high up [lifting her 
arm]. In the peerage. Why, you could marry 
practically anybody. 

Sir C. I know. 

Emily. Well, why don't you? 

Sir C. Because I don't. You're the sort of 
woman for me. What you said just now is true. 

Emily. What was that? 

Sir C. You're a fairly finished sort of article. 
You're an intellectual woman. I know I'm not 
so very intellectual, but it's only intellectual people 
that interest me all the same. 

Emily. Charlie, don't call yourself names ! 

Sir C. You can help me, more than anybody. 
You've done a good bit for me as it is. 

Emily. Why, what have I done? 

Sir C. It's thanks to you that I'm in this thea- 



88 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

tre affair. And I like that. It's the kind of thing 
I'm after. And do you know who gave me the 
idea of giving a hundred thousand to Oxford? 
You ! The first time you were here ! 

Emily. Really ? 

Sir C. Certainly. 

\Emily. I ought to tell Oxford about that. 

Sir C. We should have the finest house in Lon- 
don, you know. I'd back you to do the hospi- 
tality business as well as any duke's daughter that 
was ever born. You'd soon get hold of the right 
people. 

Emily. What do you mean by the right people ? 
Not what they call " society " people? Because 
if you do ! 

Sir C. [stamping his foot]. No, no ! Of course 
I don't. I mean intellectual people, and the john- 
nies that write for the reviews, and two or three 
chaps in the Cabinet. I could keep you off the 
rotters, because I know 'em already. 

Emily. It's all too dazzling, Charlie. 

Sir C. Not a bit. I used to think that million- 
aires must be different from other people. But 
I'm a millionaire, and I'm just the same as I 
always was. As far as dazzle goes, there's 
nothing in it. I may as well tell you that. 
Well ? 

Emily. I can't give you an answer now. 

Sir C. Oh, yes, you can. You must. I'm not 
the kind of man that can wait. 



ACT II 89 

Emily [rather coldly]. I'm afraid you'll have 
to wait. 

Sir C. [crestfallen.] But you surely must know 

what you feel? 

Emily. My dear Charles, I do not know what I 

feel. 

Sir C. [disappointed]. When shall you know? 

Emily. I can't say. 

Sir C. Honest? 

Emily. Of course. 

Sir C. But can't you give an idea? 

Emily. Of what? 

Sir C. Whether it'll be yes or no. 

Emily [with an outraged air]. Certainly 

not. 

Sir C. Well, I can tell you one thing: if you 
throw me over — I — I don't know what I shall do. 
No, I'm damned if I do. 

Emily [stiffly]. Good morning, Charlie. 

Sir C Look here. Why are you cross? 

Emily. I'm not cross. 

Sir C. You look as if you were. 

Emily. Well, good morning. [She goes to 
door, back, and opens it. Boy is seen standing 
there. Then she shuts the door and returns to 

Sir C] 

Emily. I [Sir C, after gazing at her, 

suddenly seizes her and kisses her — a long kiss.] 

Emily. I suppose I did know all the time. 

Sir C. What are you crying for? 



90 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily [income quently and weakly]. This kind 
of thing must be awfully bad for the heart. 

Sir C. [reflectively]. Well! So that's done. I 

say [Kisses her again. The telephone bell 

rings. They start guiltily.] 

Sir C. [at instrument]. Hello! Who is it? 
Yes. It's me. Oh! [To Emily] It's Francis. 

Emily [pluckily]. You mustn't tell him. 

Sir C. No, no, of course not. [At instrument.] 
What did you say? Yes. Yes. She's — er — still 
here. All right. I say, he doesn't seem like giv- 
ing way, I hope? . . . Good! [Rings off.] 

Sir C. Francis has gone off with St. John to 
the Garter 

Emily. The Garter? 

Sir C. The restaurant where we generally 
lunch. He wanted to warn me to go somewhere 
else. He says St. John is quite calmed down now, 
but the sight of me might rouse him again. Like 
Francis, isn't it? 

Emily. I forgot to tell you that no one must 
on any account know for at least three months. 

Sir C. All serene. But why? 

Emily. I can't do with it seeming too sudden — 
after the scene this morning, and with Henrietta 
here, too ! Besides, when it's known, we shall have 
to go down at once to Bursley, to see your mother. 
You may depend on that ! 

Sir C. Think so? I don't seem to see myself 
doing the happy lover in Bursley. 



ACT II 91 

Emily. Neither do I. But it will come to that. 
And I must have time to get my breath first. 

Sir C. Let's go and have lunch somewhere, eh? 

Emily. Where ? 

SirC. The Carlton? 

Emily [after a sigh]. How lovely! [Goes to 
glass to pat her hair. Sir Charles, looking at her, 
gives a little boyish, absurd gesture of tremendous 
glee, then rings a bell. Enter P age-boy. ~\ 

Sir C. [sternly]. Taximeter. 



[Curiam.] 



ACT III 

Notes on the Characters 
The whole atmosphere of this act is provincial 

John W organ. — Sir Charles's elder brother. Successful 
doctor in an industrial town. Overworked. Nervous. Thin. 
Highly educated, with very artistic tastes. A great scorner 
of unintellectual people; and a great scorner of the public. 
His lip soon curls. With that, a man of the finest honour. 
Age 43. 

Annie W organ. — His wife. The matron. Capable. 
Sensible. Slightly "managing." Her husband has given 
her a certain culture, but fundamentally she is a housewife. 
She knows that she is always equal to the situation. Nicely 
dressed. Age 35. 

Mrs. Worgan.— John's mother. Stern, but very old. 
Worries herself about nothing; is intensely proud of her 
sons, but is never satisfied with them. She and Annie, by 
mutual concession, get on very well together. Dressed in 
black. Age 67. 

Mrs. Downes. — A widow. A good provincial "body." 
Stoutish. Has money. Perfectly independent. Very good- 
natured. Strong common-sense. " Dour." Age about 62 ; 
but better preserved than Mrs. Worgan. 

James Brindley. — A successful manufacturer. Bluff. 
Kind. No fineness of perceptions. Loud voice. The aver- 
age sensual man. Age about 46. 

Edward Brindley .—His son. Nervous, shy, but sturdy in 
defending his own opinions. Quite boyish in manner. Age 

91. 

All these people are fundamentally "decent" and 
sagacious. 

92 



ACT III 98 

John Worgan's library m his house at Bursley, in 
the Five Towns. Doors, L. and back centre. 
Comfortable. Rather shabby. One striking 
bookcase; several smaller ones, and odd 
shelves. Books lying about everywhere. On 
a desk are a decanter and glasses. T'vme: 
Sunday evening, in early July. Francis is 
standing with his back to the -fireplace. En- 
ter Mrs. Downes, shown in by a servant, L. 

Mrs. D. [advancing]. Is that you, Fran- 
cis? 

Francis. Looks like me, Mrs. Downes, doesn't 
it? [They shake hands.] How are you? 

Mrs. D. I'm nicely, thank you. Well, you're 
looking bonny. And I'm right glad to see you're 
making up a bit for those nineteen years when you 
never came near the old town. 

Francis. Oh, yes. This makes three visits in 
eight months. Not so bad, eh? 

Mrs. D. Eh, if you'd only known how your 
dear mother missed you, I'm sure you'd have come 
sooner! For you've got a good heart, that I do 
know. 

Francis. Well, aren't you going to sit down? 
I'm only a visitor. Emily and I are staying here, 
you know — but I must do the honours, I suppose. 
Have this easy-chair. 

Mrs. D. [sitting]. Eh, I don't want anybody 
to do the honours for me in your brother John's 



94 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

house. I lay I know this house better than you 
do. How do you find your mother? 

Francis. Very flourishing. 

Mrs. D. She is wonderful, isn't she, consider- 
ing her age. 

Francis. You and she are as thick as ever, I 
suppose ? 

Mrs. D. Bless ye, yes ! It's many a long year 
since she and I missed having supper together on 
a Sunday evening. Two old widows ! [Confi- 
dentially.] My word, she did want to have this 
supper to-night at her own house 1 But it would 
have been too much for her. Your sister- 
in-law wouldn't hear of it, and she was quite 
right. 

Francis. Of course I What does it matter, after 
all? The mater only has to step across the road. 
It's very convenient for her, living so close to 
John. 

Mrs. D. [even more confidentially]. It saves the 
situation. Especially as your sister-in-law is so 
good. But you can understand your mother 
wanting to have the supper at her own house, 
can't ye? 

Francis. Oh, yes. 

Mrs. D. [in a more lively, more ordinary tone]. 
And where's the great man? 

Francis. Charlie? The fact is he hasn't come. 

Mrs. D. [astounded']. Not come! But I was 
told that you and Charlie and Emily were all 



ACT III 95 

coming down together yesterday evening by the 
express. * 

Francis. So we were to. But Charlie didn't 
turn up at Euston. Of course Emily and I came 
on just the same. No use all three of us making 
a mess of it! We expected a telegram here last 
night to say he'd missed the train or something. 
But no! Not a word! 

Mrs. D. But what a fearful state your mother 
must have been in ! 

Francis [nodding]. There came a telegram this 
morning at eight o'clock — must have been sent 
off last night — to say he should arrive for lunch. 
Nothing else. 

Mrs. D. And he hasn't come yet? 

Francis. No. 

Mrs. D. I wondered why your mother wasn't 
at church this morning. I said to myself she must 
be stopping in to talk to Charlie. I never dreamt 
— and haven't you any idea ? 

Francis. Oh ! something unexpected, I suppose ! 
[Enter Annie, back.] 

Annie. Well, Mrs. Downes, [kisses her] glad 
you've come early. Nice thing about Charlie, isn't 
it? Not been near Bursley for seven years, and 
now playing us this trick! 

Mrs. D. Eh, my dear! What a state his 
mother must be in ! 

Annie. I should think so ! And the children 
ill, into the bargain ! 



96 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Mrs. D. The children ill? 

Annie. Sickening for something. John's ex- 
amined them. He thinks it may be measles. But 
he isn't sure. He's just been into the surgery 
to make something up, and now he's gone across 
to his mother's to see if there's any fresh news. 

Mrs. D. And Emily, where is she? 

Annie. She's in the nursery. 

Mrs. D. Poor thing ! How upset she must be ! 

Annie. Oh, Emily takes it very well. I expect 
she knows her Charlie. Anyhow, she isn't one to 
work herself up into a state for nothing. 

Mrs. D. I'm glad to hear it. What a good 
thing for him he's marrying a sensible girl ! After 
all, there's none like a Five Towns wife, that I 
do say, go where you will. [Enter John, L.] 

John [with false calm]. Well, he's come. 
Hello, Mrs. Downes ! 

Mrs. D. Eh, but that's a relief! 

John. He's been at the mater's about half an 
hour. [Shakes hands absently with Mrs. Downes.] 
It seems he was kept by something unexpected 
yesterday — something about the Mercury — he's 
very vague. Wired last night, but of course too 
late for delivery here! Started out in his motor 
this morning early, and had a breakdown near 
Tring that lasted seven hours. Cheerful! No 
telegraph office open in this Christian country I 
No train ! However he's here — car, chauffeur, and 
all ! He's sent the car down to the Tiger. 



ACT III 97 

Annie. I hope he hasn't brought a valet — your 
mother will worry quite enough as it is. 

John. I should think he hadn't. Charlie knows 
better than that, anyway. 

Annie. You told him not to dress? 

John. Look here, infant ! I shouldn't dream 
of telling him not to dress. He knows perfectly 
well where he is. 

Francis. Annie, you mustn't forget, even 
though Charlie is the shah of Persia, John is his 
eldest brother and the head of the family. 

Annie. I was only thinking of all the grand 
doings he treated me to last time I was up in 
London. [To John.] How long shall we have to 
wait supper? 

John. We sha'n't have to wait supper at all. 
They'll be across in a minute or two. 

Francis. Johnny wishes you to understand that 
there's no positive necessity to turn the house 
inside out merely because Charlie is in the town. 

Annie. He needn't pretend. He knows he's 
just as excited and nervous as any one. [John 
winks at Francis, indicating good-natured scorn 
of women.] Have you made up that medicine? 

John. Yes, my dove. In spite of my excited 
and nervous condition, I have made up that 
medicine. Divide it into three equal parts, and 
administer one part to each of your marvellous 
offspring. You might also relieve Emily's natural 
anxiety as to her young man. 



98 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Annie. Come along, Mrs. Dowries, and take a 
peep at the chicks — if you aren't afraid of 
measles. 

Mrs. D. Me! [Exit Mrs. Downes and Annie, 
John smiles to himself. ~\ 

Francis. Well, how does he strike you? 

John [condescendingly]. Oh! he's the same as 
ever ! Now, he's nervous, if you like. What 
would have kept him yesterday, do you know? 

Francis. Haven't the least idea. 

John. I thought you were in the counsels of 
the firm now. 

Francis. So I am. And it's the most enormous 
lark that ever was. But I never show myself on 
Saturdays. 

John. Lark, is it? 

Francis. Well, you can imagine what fun it 
must be from the Mercury. 

John. You don't suppose I read that thing, do 
you? 

Francis. You miss a treat then. I hadn't used 
to read it. But now I wouldn't be without it. 
We've just got a new musical critic. I collect his 
pearls. Here's one [takes a cutting from his 
pocket] about the concert that Elgar conducted 
on Friday : " Sir Edward took his men through the 
initial movement of the Dream of Gerontius at a 
smart pace. They responded willingly to his 
baton." 

John [impressed]. It's too fearfully wonder- 



ACT III 99 

ful, isn't it? I say, what do you think of Elgar, 
really ? 

Francis. Tell you in fifty years. 

John. I agree with you. [Loud voice heard 
of, L.] There's Brindley. 

Francis. Oh! He was here last time I was 
down, wasn't he? Full of stories from the Win- 
ning Post. 

John. Yes, that's the chap. I hope he won't 
bore you. 

Francis. My dear fellow, when one goes to 
school with a man, one must accept all the con- 
sequences. 

John. Well, he is a bit heavy. But he's a most 
frightfully good bridge-player, and he's fond of 
the kids — and so the wife likes him. I really 
asked him to-night because of his son, Ed- 
ward; the youth shows signs of taking to litera- 
ture. 

Francis. D'ye mean to say Jim Brindley has 
got a grown-up son? 

John. Why, it's eighteen years since his wife 
died. Teddy's a very decent boy. He's writing 
a play, and he wanted to meet you. I couldn't 
ask him without his father. 

Francis. Have I got to do the swell dramatic 
critic, then? 

John. Well, you know what youths are ! [En- 
ter Brindley.] 

Brindley. How do, John? 



100 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

John. How do, Jim? Where's the boy? 
[They do not shake hands.'] 

Brindley. He's coming a bit later. How do, 
Francis ? 

Francis [shaking hands]. How do, Jim? 

Brindley. So you've come down from the vil- 
lage, then? 

Francis. Yes. [Brief awkwardness.] 

Brindley. And where's the great man? 

John. Charlie? Oh, he'll be across soon with 
the mater. He's only just turned up. Came in 
his motor and had a breakdown. 

Brindley. Oh! had a breakdown, did he? 
What's his make? 

John. Motor? Don't know! What is it, 
Francis ? 

Francis. Don't know. He's got several. 

Brindley. Lucky devil! Did you see that joke 
in the Winning Post yesterday about the chauffeur 
and the chambermaid? 

John. Jimmy, about once a week I have to 
explain to you that my chief object in life is to 
avoid seeing the Winnmg Post. Have a drop of 
vermouth before supper? 

Brindley. A split soda's more in my line to- 
night; but I'll never say die! [Crosses the room 
to help himself; as he does so, to Francis.] You 
wouldn't think, to hear him talk, that he was as 
fond of a tasty story as any of us, would you, 
Francis? 



ACT III 101 

John. You don't know what tasty is, my poor 
James. In the regions of tastiness you've never 
got beyond a kind of sixth-form snigger. 

Brindley. Listen to him ! Well, here's luck ! 
[Drinks.] 

Francis [amiable for Brindley 's sake']. Doc- 
tors, eh, Jim? Doctors! 

John. You sniggerers must be having a rare 
time just now with this Harrisburg M.P. divorce 
case — three columns or so every day. 

Brindley [at once interested; in a peculiar low 
'voice]. It is a bit hot, ain't it? 

John [to Francis]. There! What did I tell 
you? 

Brindley [approaching the other two, glass in 
hand]. But really ! yesterday's papers were lively. 
I read several of 'em. The Mercury was pretty 
steep, but the London Sentinel was steeper. 

Francis. And none of them print all the evi- 
dence. 

Brindley [impressed]. Don't they! 

Francis. By Jove, no ! Simply daren't ! And 
there's worse to come, it appears. 

Brindley. Is there! Well, it's a rare good 
thing for newspapers. And I suppose they must 
make hay while the sun shines, same as the rest of 
us. [In a still lower voice.] By the way, seen this? 
[Takes a paper from his pocket.] 

John. What is it? 

Brindley. Sunday Morning News. 



102 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

John. Never see it. 

Brindley. It's one of Master Charlie's papers. 

John. But if I had to read all Charlie's papers 
I should have my hands full. 

Brindley. They've been giving a series of " Fa- 
mous Crimes of Passion " every week now for a 
long time. They must rake 'em up from old news- 
papers, I reckon. To-day's is the Ashby-de- 
la-Zouch double seduction, specially illustrated. 
In 1881. 

John. I always thought there was something 
sinister about Ashby-de-la-Zouch. 

Brindley. And look here. 

John [impatiently]. What? [He reads from the 
paper.] " Next week. The famous Dick Downes 
case." What in the name of Heaven ? Fran- 
cis, do you know anything about this? 

Francis [shakes his head]. I've scarcely seen the 
paper except in bundles in the motor-vans. What 

is the famous Dick Downes case? Downes 

Surely it's nothing to do with 

John. Don't you remember it? Dick Downes 
was a Town Councillor of this town. It was a 
filthy thing. I can recollect as well as anything 
what a perfect deuce of a sensation it made — 
must be thirty years ago. Dick Downes was our 
Mrs. Downes's brother-in-law. He killed him- 
self. 

Francis. I believe I have some vague recollec- 
tion of it. 



ACT III 103 

John. I should say so ! 

Brindley. Saucy, eh? What'll the old lady 
say? 

John. Charles must be gone right bang off his 
chump I 

Brindley. You may say they titivate these 
things up. Look at these headings of the Ashby- 
de-la-Zouch affair. " The virgin's chamber." 
" The criminal's amorous record." " The psy- 
chological moment." " The suppressed letter." 
" What the doctor said." 

John [glaring at the paper]. Of course if 
they're going to embroider the Dick Downes case 

in that style ! [Positively.] Charlie simply 

can't know anything about it. 

Francis. You needn't look at me like that, 
Johnny. I'm not the criminal. [Brindley drops 
the paper.] 

John. I suppose you don't want that? [vndi- 
catmg paper.] 

Brindley. No. I only brought it in to show 
you. [The door opens, L.] 

John [picking up the paper and crushing it 
angrily]. Just keep your mouth shut, Jimmy. 
Here's [He pitches the paper into a waste- 
paper basket. At the same moment enter Mrs. 
W organ and Sir Charles.] 

Mrs. W. Well, here we are at last. Good 
evening, Mr. Brindley. [General awkwardness.] 

Brindley. Good evening, Mrs. Worgan. [They 



104 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

shake hands.] Well, Sir Charles, glad to see ye. 
[Shakes hands with Sir Charles.'] 

John. Look here, Jim, I don't think there's 
got to be any sirring. Titles are very useful in 
business, but we don't want to be bored with them 
here, eh, Charlie? 

Sir C. Quite right. 

Brindley. You must excuse your brother, 
Charlie. If he isn't wearing a red necktie it's 
because he forgot to put it on this morning. 

Sir C. [laughs]. How do, Francis? 

Francis [nods]. Well, you're a nice chap! 

Sir C. Yes. 

Mrs. W. What's the latest about the children, 
John? And where are Emily and Annie? 

John. Annie and Emily will be here in a min- 
ute, mater. I believe the children are still alive. 

Mrs. W. John, I do wish you wouldn't talk 
like that. 

Sir C. Measles, I hear! 

John. Probably. Sit down, mater. 

Sir C. How did they catch it? 

John. I'd give a sovereign to know. 

Sir C. I see you've got a new under-draught 
grate there. 

Mrs. W. Fancy the boy noticing that ! 

John. Have you noticed my new bookcase? 

Sir C. Ah, yes! Where did you pick that up? 

John. Old Harrop's sale. [General awkward- 
ness increases.] 



ACT III 105 

Brindley [to Sir Charles]. So you had a 
breakdown, eh? What was it? Ignition? 

Sir C. Yes. What made you think of that ? 

Brindley. Well — the weather, you know. I've 
got a small car myself. 

Sir C. Have you? 

Brindley [self-satisfied]. Oh, yes. 

Sir C. What mark? [They talk.] 

Francis [in front of bookcase]. What's this; 
little Selections from Swinburne, John? I never 
knew there was any volume of selections. 

John. It's the Tauchnitz edition. Do you 
mean to say you've never had it — you, a travel- 
ler? 

Francis [examining book]. No. So you smug- 
gled it in? 

John. I just brought it in. I've got lots of 
Tauchnitzes. 

Francis. Is it any good? 

John. Pretty fair! But it only gives part of 
Anactoria. 

Francis. Oh, be dashed to it, then! [Puts it 
back.] 

Mrs. W. I wish my sons would be a little more 
careful in their language. 

Francis. Is she shocked? She should not be 
shocked. [Goes and kisses her, from behind, with 
a humorous gesture.] 

Mrs. W. [playfully repulsing him]. Go away 
with you ! 



106 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

John. And just look how he's shoved this book 
back! 

Sir C. [to Brindley\. And of course with no 
telegraph office open ! 

John [as he adjusts book on shelf, without 
turning towards Sir Charles']. Now, there* s a 
thing you ought to take up in one of your 
mighty organs! 

Sir C. What, Johnny? 

John [turning to him~\. The impossibility of 
telegraphing after 10 a.m. on Sundays. It's 
simply criminal. Ask any medical man. You 
might work it up into one of your celebrated 
Mercury sensations! There'd be some sense in 
that! 

Sir C. No good at all. 

John. Why not? 

Sir C. No genuine public interest in it. 

John. I don't know that there was such a deuce 
of a lot of genuine public interest in your famous 
campaign against Germany, my boy. 

Sir C. Oh! that's all over, now. 

Mrs. W. Eh, I'm thankful. We don't want 
any wars. 

Brmdley. I saw the other day you had a leader 
saying that friendship with Germany must be the 
pivot of our foreign policy, or something like 
that. 

Sir C. Well, you see 

John, Who are you going to war with next. 



ACT III 107 

Charlie? You don't seem to have been doing 
much lately in the boom line, from what I 
hear. 

Brindley. So long as the Harrisburg case is 
on, I reckon you newspaper people don't want 
any boom. 

Mrs. W. Please don't discuss that case, Mr. 
Brindley. 

Brindley. I'm not going to, Mrs. Worgan. I 
was only wondering what there would be about it 
in Tuesday's papers. 

Sir C. I can tell you what there'll be about it 
in the Mercury — nothing! 

Brindley. Really? But [Enter Emily 

and Annie.] 

Annie. Ah! Well, he has come! How are 
you, Charles? Glad to see you. 

Sir C. [shaking hands']. How are you, Annie? 
Very fit, thanks ! You see I'm not late for sup- 
per. [To Emily, shaking hands.] I hope you 
weren't upset? 

Emily. No. Not upset . . . ! But what was 
it? 

Sir C. [confidentially]. I'll tell you. . . . 

Mrs. W. What's this? What's this? Aren't 
you going to kiss her? Isn't he going to kiss 
you, my dear, after all this anxiety he J s given us? 

Francis. Now, Charlie. You must be a man. 
[Sir Charles and Emily kiss.] 

Mrs. W. That's better. 



108 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Brindley. Nobody but old friends present. 
How d'ye do, Mrs. Vernon? [Shakes hands with 
her.] I haven't had time to congratulate Charlie 
yet. But I congratulate him now. Charlie, my 
boy, I congratulate you. You've got on to a bit 
of all right. [Sir Charles nods.] 

Armie. Jim, the children want you. Go up at 
once, because supper will be ready in a minute. 
Mrs. Downes is there, gossiping with the nurse. 
Bring her down with you. 

Mrs. W. Mrs. Downes has come, has she? 
John, you never told me. 

Annie [to Brindley as he goes']. We sha'n't 
wait for Teddy, you know — if he's late. 

Brindley. I've no control over Teddy. He 
offered me a cigar the other day. 

Mrs. W. I think I'll just go and have one peep 
at the children [half rising]. 

Annie. Now, mother, do give yourself a mo- 
ment's rest. It isn't two hours since you saw 
them. And supper's ready. 

Mrs. W. Very well. 

Annie [to Brindley]. And don't excite them, 
whatever you do. 

Brmdley [at door, back]. All right. \_Exit.] 

Emily [who has been talking apart with Sir 
Charles]. But what kept you, so suddenly as all 
that, my poor boy? 

Sir C. Well, there needn't be any secret about 
it. As a matter of fact I was just going to tell 



ACT III 109 

Brindley. It's that Harrisburg divorce case. 
Kendrick had heard what Monday's evidence was 
likely to be, and I sha'n't be there on Monday, so 
he wanted to consult me as to what should be 
put in and what should be left out. It's fright- 
fully difficult, as a question of principle. 

Annie. But how can you decide beforehand? 

Sir C. I'll tell you what I decided. I decided 
we wouldn't report any more evidence at all in 
either the Mercury or the Courier. 

Mrs. W. I'm thankful to hear it, Charles ! I 
must say some of the things one sees nowadays 
in the papers 

Sir C. It's quite time some newspapers made 
a stand for public decency. And we're going to 
do it. We shall put it on all the posters : " No 
report of Harrisburg evidence." No newspaper 
ever had a poster like that before. It'll do us 
a tremendous lot of good, and it'll be one in the 
eye for the Sentinel. I thought we ourselves went 
rather far yesterday, but the Sentinel went 
further. And we've got to beat the Sentinel 
somehow. 

Annie. I think you've chosen a very good way. 

John [ironically]. Emily, he is a genius. No- 
body else would have thought of that. 

Sir C. [half laughing at John\. So that's how 
it stands. Of course we shall run a campaign. 
I had a great deal of difficulty in making Kendrick 
see the idea. It took us three hours to thrash 



110 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

it out. I did my level best to catch the last train, 
and missed it. [Enter Edward Brindley, L., 
shyly.'] 

Annie. Here he is ! Young man, what have 
you been doing to be late? 

John. Teddy has been writing his play, I 
bet. 

Mrs. W. I hope he hasn't forgotten what day 
it is. 

Edward. Good evening, Mrs. John ; good even- 
ing, Mrs. Worgan. [Shakes hands.] Sorry I'm 
late. Good evening [shaking hands with John]. 

John. This is Mrs. Vernon, formerly of the 
Prince's Theatre, Teddy. This is Francis, dra- 
matic critic of Men and Women, and this is 
Charles, boss of the said theatre. You may be 
said to be in the theatrical world at last. But 
don't be nervous. [To the others.] Let me 
introduce Edward Brindley, dramatist. [Edward 
shakes hands.] 

Sir C. So you want to write plays, do you? 

Edward [to John]. I say, Mr. Worgan, why 
have you started right off talking about me like 
this? 

Annie. People who come late must expect to 
be conspicuous. 

John. Besides, you don't imagine you're asked 
here to-night in your private capacity, do you? 
Not a bit. You're asked as a playwright. Why ! 
he's had a play performed at the Drill Hall! It 



ACT III 111 

had half a column in the Signal, and an uninter- 
rupted run of one night. 

Edward. Look here, Mrs. John, can't you stop 
him? 

John [continuing]. Have you read any of 
Francis's dramatic criticisms in Men and Women? 

Edward. Yes. 

John. What do you think of them? 

Edward. I think some of them are pretty 
good. 

John. And the others? 

Edward. Oh — look here, I say! 

John. You see how uneven you are, Francis. 
[To Edward.] Got your new play in your pocket, 
Teddy? 

Edward. Of course I haven't. 

John. Well, tell us about it. 

Edward. Where's the dad? 

John. Never mind where the dad is. Perhaps 
he's under the sofa. Tell us about it. 

Edward. No. 

Emily. Please, do! 

Annie. He's very shy for his age, isn't he? 

Edward. What do you want me to tell you? 

Francis. Well, for instance, what kind of peo- 
ple are there in it? 

Edward. Oh, just ordinary, common people — 
like us. 

Francis. Not provincials? 

Edward. Yes. Five Towns people. 



112 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. We sha'n't care much for that, we 
critics ! 

John. There! What did I tell you? 

Edward. Why not? 

Francis. Why not? Well, you see, we've al- 
most all of us come from the provinces, and we 
try to forget it. We live in clubs in Pall Mall or 
Dover Street, and we never leave them until it's 
time to go to the theatre. We don't even read 
about the provinces, except occasionally in Brad- 
I suppose you want to make a great 



I should alter the scene to 
I don't know anything about 



I'm sure you're only rotting me. 
[To Emily.] Isn't he? 

Emily. I don't know. But you stick up for 
yourself. 

Francis. Of course I'm not rotting him. Who 
are the folks in the play? 

Edward. Well, it's a Wesleyan Methodist set 
— they're very strong in the town, you know. 

Francis. Oh, I see. It's a farce? 

Edward. No. It's very nearly a tragedy. 

Francis [shakes his head]. Won't do! Won't 
have a chance! If you want to make a London 



shaw. . . . 


I sup] 


success ? 




Edward. 


Yes. 


Francis. 


Then 


London. 




Edward. 


But 


London. 




Francis. 


All tli 


Edward. 


I'm 



ACT III 113 

audience laugh, you've only got to mention the 
word Methodist, and the whole house will go into 
fits. 

Mrs. W. Really, Francis? 

Francis. Yes, mater. 

Mrs. W. I'm not partial to the Wesleyans 
myself, but I see no reason for going into a fit 
when I meet them in the street. 

Edward [to Francis.] But why? 

Francis. I suppose they perceive something 
fundamentally comic in a Methodist. A play full 
of Methodists would be a great idea for a farce, 
and I don't think it's ever been done. But if 
you're on the tragic side at all, you ought to 
change your Methodists to Church of England. 
That will at least make people gloomy. I suppose 
they're very rich — Methodists usually are. 

Edward. No. They're all poor, except one, 
and he's a miser. The hero is a rate-collector. 
And he's supposed to live in one of those new 
cottages down Brougham Street. It's rather 
taken from life, you know. 

Francis. My poor young man ! 

Edward. I read in one of your articles that 
what the theatre needs is closer contact with life, 
anyway 1 And I've read it in lots of articles ! 

Francis. Yes, I admit that's how we talk. But 
let any one try it on, and we're naturally disturbed 
in our habits, and we don't like it. Is it nearly 
done, this play? 



114 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Edward. It is done. I finished it to-night. 

Francis. Well, I really don't know what to say ! 
A rate-collector in a new cottage down Brougham 
Street, Bursley, and all Methodists ! Where were 
you thinking of sending the play to start with? 

Edward. I thought I'd try it on George 
Alexander ; I believe in flying high. 

Francis. The very man! I never thought of 
him! [All laugh.'] 

Edward [to John]. I know you've made it up 
with your brother to rot me. 

John. I assure you, Teddy 

Edward. Oh, yes, you have. But I don't care. 
I daresay it's awfully bad — in fact, I know it is — 
but it's like life, and I don't care! 

Emily. Will you let me read it? 

Edward [after examining her face]. Yes. But 
they told me you'd done with the theatre, now. 

Emily. So I have. But I should like to read it. 

Francis [getting up and taking Edward by the 
shoulder, in a serious, kind tone]. Come along, 
Edward, and let's talk about it somewhere pri- 
vately. [A gong.] 

Annie. You can't go and talk about it now — 
supper's ready. [Francis and Edward talk apart.] 

John. I notice Charlie shows no rabid desire 
to let this play be produced at the Prince's. 
Nothing less than Shakespeare there nowadays ! 
What's become of St. John, by the way? 

Sir C. Gone to New York. You ought to 



ACT III 115 

come and see The Merchant of Venice. It's a 
colossal success. 

John, I've seen it. . . . Saw it last week but 
one. 

Sir C. Really? You should have let me know 
you were coming. 

John. Oh! I was only up for one night. A 
" G.P." can't go away for six weeks. Your 
what's -his-name — Cleland — was very polite, and 
gave me a stall. 

Sir C. Clever fellow, Cleland! Very clever! 
Well, what do you think of it? 

John. My dear chap — you're my guest. 

Sir C. [bluffing it out~\. Oh, go ahead, man. 

John [after a pause~\. When St. John had the 
Prince's it used to be worth going to. 

Sir C. Yes, and till I came he invariably lost 
money. 

John. What does that matter? 

Sir C. Exactly! Exactly! "What does it 
matter?" It's always the way with you superior 
persons — you want something, but you expect 
somebody else to pay for it. 

Annie. John — that's one for you. Supper, 
please. Come along, mother. 

Mrs. W. I think there's a lot of wild talk been 
going on. 

John [as the company is filmg out]. I say, 
Charlie. 

Sir C. Yes. 



116 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

John. Just a word. You needn't wait for us, 
mater. Sha'n't be a minute. [Mrs. Worgan 
reluctantly follows the others out, bach. Sir 
Charles and John remain alone.] 

Sir C. What's up? 

John [quite friendly]. Look, here, Charlie, 
boy, you've been talking about public morals, and 
the Daily Mercury. I agree with you, in princi- 
ple, though I think you're quite wrong to sup- 
press the Harrisburg evidence entirely. But what 
I want to know is : How do you defend the 
Sunday Morning News? 

Sir C. [at a loss for an instant]. Defend the 
Sunday Morning News? Oh ! — it's the " Crimes 
of Passion " series that you're driving at? 
[Laughs.] 

John. It is. 

Sir C. Well, you see, that's quite different. 
It's a question of a different public. There's 

something funny about the Sunday public 

[Stops.] 

John. I suppose you mean that when the great 
and enlightened public has an idle morning to 
pass, its sole resource is indecency? 

Sir C. [laughing]. Well, you know what peo- 
ple are. I don't expect anybody could teach you 
much. 

John. But how do you defend that " Crimes 
of Passion" stuff? 

Sir C. I don't defend it. It doesn't need any 



ACT III 117 

defending. I simply give our readers what they 
want. I'm not a guardian of public morals. 

John. You pretend to be, in the Mercury. 

Sir C. Don't I tell you the Mercury's differ- 
ent ! If I go on the moral lay for a bit in the 
Mercury that's because I think the Mercury pub- 
lic want it. But the Sunday public want some- 
thing else, and I give it them. 

John. How can you be sure they want it? 

Sir C. I can be sure because the circulation 
has gone up a couple of hundred thousand in 
four months. 

John. I was thinking perhaps you didn't know 
anything about it — — 

Sir C. Oh yes ! Naturally I can't keep an eye 
on everything. But the main features of policy 
come from me — you may bet on that. 

John. Well, something's got to be done. 

Sir C. My dear chap, what the deuce are you 
talking about? 

John. I'm talking about Mrs. Downes. 

Sir C. What about Mrs. Downes? 

John. She's in my house. She's playing with 
my children. She's the mater's oldest friend. 
You'll meet her at supper. And next week in 
one of your unspeakable papers you're going to 
rake up old scandals about her family. 

Sir C. What ? [At a loss.] 

John [snatches up paper, reads]. " Next week, 
the famous Dick Downes case." 



118 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. [smiles grimly]. Oh! I didn't know 
they'd got on to that. Really 1 As I say, I di- 
rect the policy ; but I don't see everything. Let's 
have a look. [Takes paper and looks at it.~\ Yes. 
It is a shade on the side of being awkward, isn't it? 

John [sarcastically], A stickler for social con- 
ventions might conceivably object to the situation 
you've created, my boy. 

Sir C. She hasn't seen it? 

John. Fortunately, no. 

Sir C. Well, she won't see it to-night unless 
you show it to her. So that's all right. ... So 
you read the Sunday Morning News, do you? 
[Mrs. W organ appears at door.] 

John [violently]. Indeed I don't read the filthy 
rag. Brindley brought it in to show me. 

Sir C. Come, come, Johnny ! You needn't 
rave. [Enter Mrs. W organ, who has been listen- 
ing uneasily at open door, back.] 

Mrs. W. [advancing, disturbed]. What's 
amiss? What's this? What's this about Mrs. 
Downes ? 

Sir C. Nothing, mater, nothing. 

John, Mater, didn't I tell you to go in to 
supper? 

Mrs. W. What are you hiding from me? 
Charlie, give me that paper. 

John [resigned]. Better give it her, now, and 
have done with it. It's public enough, in all 
conscience ! 



ACT III 119 

Sir C. Oh, very well. [Defiantly hands paper 
to Mrs. W organ, who with difficulty adjusts her 
spectacles to read it. A pause.] 

John. Bottom of that page, mother — where 
you are now. [An awkward pause while she reads.] 

Mrs. W. [much moved]. Well, Charlie, I'd 
never have believed it of you. There are lots of 
things that I deliberately close my eyes to, and a 
Sunday paper is one of them. But I never dreamt 
that even in a Sunday paper. . . . Raking up 
the Downes case! . . . [Weeps.] I shall fetch 
Emily. [Exit quickly.] 

Sir C. It's unfortunate, of course, but these 
things do happen. 

John. There's no real harm done yet. Of 
course you'll stop it? 

Sir C. Stop it! My dear fellow, how can I 
stop it? 

John. Aren't you the boss? 

Sir C. It's too late. Those inner sheets will 
be on the machine to-morrow morning. We have 
to dovetail in our machining as well as we can. 
Besides, why should I stop it? 

John. But you must stop it. The thing's un- 
thinkable, utterly unthinkable! 

Sir C. It's simply a coincidence, an accident. 

John. What's simply an accident? 

Sir C. Supposing I hadn't been down here? 
Supposing Brindley hadn't shown you the paper? 
You'd never have seen it. Or you'd have seen it 



120 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

too late. And you wouldn't have thought twice 
about it. But just because I'm here 

John [angrily]. Shouldn't I have thought 
twice about it ! 

Sir C. No. After all, what is it? We're just re- 
printing what was common property twenty-five 
years ago. It isn't as if it had been kept private 
till now. How can it affect Mrs. Downes? She 
wasn't in it. Even her husband scarcely appeared 
in it. 

John. Rot! It will be a reflection on the 
whole Downes family. It must necessarily be very 
unpleasant for any member of that family. 

Sir C. I can't help that. Dick Downes should 
have thought of that before he began murdering. 
If I had to be always considering about being 
unpleasant to people, I should have something 
to do — with forty papers. Look here, Johnny. 
You're awfully clever and intellectual and all 
the rest of it; but you're looking at this in 
rather a provincial way. If you'd lived in London 
more 

John. Don't be idiotic! London's the most 
provincial town in England — invariably vulgar, 
reactionary, hysterical, and behind the rest of the 
country. A nice sort of place England would be 
if we in the provinces had to copy London. I'm 
looking at it in a provincial way, am I? Well, 
it's a good thing I am ! 

Sir C There you go! That's the provincial 



ACT III 121 

all over ! [smiling] . Now let me put it to you 
calmly, John. Here, I have an immense organisa- 
tion 

John [savagely]. To the devil with your im- 
mense organisation ! 

Sir C. I say I have an immense organisation — 
an organisation that you've no conception of, 
perhaps. A paper that sells eleven hundred thou- 
sand copies a week. A paper that has a special 
distributing agent in every town of England. A 
paper that prints in every issue a sermon by a 
well-known preacher. A paper that has its Par- 
liamentary sketch written by an M.P. A paper 
that comes up to the North every Saturday night 
in a special train — my train, with five or six vans 
full of parcels and my sorters. A paper that's 
known and read all over the world. One of the 
most complicated pieces of mechanism in the whole 
of journalism. And you want me to interfere 
with it just because an old lady happens to be 
in the same house as I am! [Snorts.] 

John. My dear chap, I'm not a public meeting. 
I don't care how vast nor how complicated your 
mechanism is. What does it matter even if you 
sell eleven hundred million copies a week? This 
isn't a mathematical problem. If your vast and 
complicated mechanism makes it impossible for me 
to look one of my friends in the face across my 
supper table, then your vast and complicated 
mechanism has gone wrong and must be corrected. 



122 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. Nonsense! How can it harm her? It 
doesn't touch her. All she has to do is not to 
read it. It isn't so much the expense and the 
awful inconvenience of stopping the thing that I 
object to 

John. Then what do you object to? 

Sir C. The principle. 

John. Principle! I must say you've got a 
nerve, you have, to talk about principle! 

Sir C. I've got my principles, like anybody 
else. 

John. You've got too many principles, Char- 
lie. That's what's the matter with you. You've 
got one for the Mercury, and another for this 
Sunday rag. 

Sir C. Don't be childish! You surely ought 
to be able to see, with your brains, that I can't be 
the same in forty different papers. I've no desire 
at all to ram my personal ideas down the throats 
of forty different publics. I give each what it 
wants. I'm not a blooming reformer. I'm a 
merchant. 

John. On Sundays you're a muck-merchant. 
But you've no right to commit a nuisance. 

Sir C. Rubbish! All I do is to reflect the 
public taste. And that's why the Mercury, for 
instance, is the most powerful newspaper in Eng- 
land to-day. 

John. Yes, among errand-boys — I believe. 

Sir C. [really vexed for the first time]. You 



ACT III 

needn't talk like that. Of course, here, I'm only 
your brother 

John. Well, I suppose you are. But I must 
say I never dreamt you'd make the slightest 
bother about stopping this monstrous outrage. 

Sir C. And I must say I never dreamt you 
were so hypocritical. Damn it ! every one knows 
all about the public. You stuff 'em with medicine. 
I give 'em something else. Both of us have to 
take the public as it is ! [Calming himself.'] No, 
no, my dear chap, I really must be allowed to 
conduct my own business. 

John. Let me ask you one question. Who 
gets the profits of this beastliness? 

Sir C. I object to the word. 

John. Call it angelic pureness, then. Do you? 
[Bell rings again.] 

Sir C. You may depend I get most of the 
profits. 

John [with slow, cutting enunciation]. And 
do you think I can allow two people to meet at 
my table, one of whom is making money out of a 
gratuitous exposure of painful secrets in the 
other's life — and that other an old lady? 
Whether Mrs. Downes knows what you're doing 
or not is beside the point. She will know it. 
Can't you see that the situation is absolutely im- 
possible? Or have you got no sense of decency 
left? 

Sir C. Aren't you talking a bit tall? 



124 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

John. No. 

Sir C. Well, then, you mean you'd like me to 
go? [Enter Emily unseen at -first by the brothers. 
She has the newspaper m her hand.~\ 

John. How can I answer that? There's the 
mater to think of. 

Sir C. Well, I never guessed Bursley was such 
a hole! 

John [who has seen Emily]. Think it over a 
moment. I'm going into the surgery for a 
second. [Half to himself.] I suppose that con- 
founded supper is waiting. [Exit, L.~\ 

Emily [deeply disturbed]. Charlie! 

Sir C. Yes, you may well say " Charlie ! " I've 
brought you into a nice family, upon my soul ! I 
suppose the mater's been telling you about this 
preposterous business. [Emily nods.] Well, I 
must confess I'd no idea John was such a frantic 
prig. . . . Because I run a paper to sell, and I 

happen to No, I'm damned if I can make 

it out ! I'm damned if I can, and that's flat. 

Emily. There's your mother to be thought of. 
She is very upset indeed. 

Sir C. My dear girl, I came down simply to 
satisfy the mater. That's all right. But I'm not 
going to have my family interfering with my 
business. It's too ridiculous. Why doesn't 
Francis knock some sense into some of 'em? 
Where is he? Cleared off, of course! That's 
Francis all over! 



ACT III 125 



Emily. But, Charlie, don't you think- 



er C. Look here, Em, you can't understand 
these things. I don't expect you to, so far as that 
goes. 

Emily [solemnly and stiffly]. Do you mean to 
say that you won't put a stop to that Downes 
case, whatever it costs you? 

Sir C. Certainly not! [After a pause.] I 
might just as well be asked to stop the whole 
series, and fill the pages with extracts from the 
Acts of the Apostles. [Emily is astounded, 
shocked, and desperate. She does not know what 
to do, and she hesitates. Then her whole de- 
meanour changes. She approaches Sir Charles 
coaxingly, caressingly, putting forth all her charm 
and persuasiveness. She relies on her sensuous 
power over Sir Charles.'] 

Emily. Charlie, to please me! 

Sir C. No, no [half repulsing her]. What you 
women want is peace at any price. You don't 
appreciate the argument at all. 

Emily. Dearest, I don't pretend to appreciate 
the argument. But to please me — it's the first 
time I've ever asked you to do anything for me. 
Do! Do! To please your Emily [caressing 
him]. 

Sir C. [after hesitation]. Oh, very well, then! 

Emily. And you'll be nice, and jolly! You 
won't look glum! You know how nice you can 
be! 



126 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. [sighing, half smiling, shaking his head 
humorously]. You girls — you simply do what 
you like. [Re-enter J ohm.] 

John. Of course, Charles — — 

Sir C. That'll do, old chap. I'll stop it. I'll 
see to it first thing to-morrow morning. Keep 
your hair on. 

John [looking at him]. Oh, well, that's all 
right. [Enter Anme, back.] 

Annie [taking Sir Charles by the ear playfully, 
but with a certam concealed exasperation]. Come 
along! Am I to be mistress in my own house, or 
am I not? Never did I know such a family of 
arguers as you Worgans. But if you think I'm 
going to have my supper spoiled, you are mis- 
taken. Come along, you others. [Exeunt Annie 
and Sir Charles, followed by John. Emily is left 
alone. Enter Mrs. Downes, L.] 

Mrs. D. [hurrying]. Bless us, I hope I'm not 
keeping everybody. Are they gone in? And I 
haven't shaken hands with the great man yet. 

Emily. Mrs. Downes, I just want to tell 
you 

Mrs. D. Eh, what's amiss? 

Emily. If anybody says anything to you about 
— about something in the Sunday Morning News 
— it isn't true. I mean it's been stopped. Char- 
lie didn't know about it — he's — — 

Mrs. D. Eh, bless ye, my dear. Do you sup- 
pose I don't know about that? Why, half a dozen 



ACT III 127 

different people took the trouble to tell me about 
it before nine o'clock this morning! But I make 
naught of it. I know what those Sunday papers 
are! No respectable person would look at one of 
them. You say Charlie didn't know — you'll ex- 
cuse my plain speaking, my dear, but he ought 
to have known ! . . . There's only one thing that 
puts me about, and that is — what will his poor 
mother think? [Goes towards door, back, then 
returns to Emily.] My dear, I do hope you'll be 
able to influence him for good. [Exit back. 
Emily's face is a study. Enter Francis back.~\ 

Francis. I say, the missis is getting cross. 
Hello! You surely aren't crying? 
Emily [crying]. No. 

Francis. Look here. I don't really see what 
you've got to be upset about. John and Charlie 
are simply behaving like angels to each other. 
The whole bother is settled satisfactorily, and I've 
no doubt it's you that did it. The fact is, you 
ought to be proud ; you convinced him. 

Emily. No, I didn't convince him. I only 
caressed him. 

Francis. Well, I suppose this supper must be 
eaten. [Movement towards door.] 



[Curiam.] 



ACT IV 

Scene: Same as Act I. Time: Afternoon. Sir 
Charles and Kendrick are sitting together. 

Sir C. [handing document to Kendrick~\. I 
think that'll do, for a draft. Be sure to have it 
typed with wider spaces between the lines this 
time, so that I can see to read it better. Share- 
holders don't like hesitations, especially in figures. 

Kendrick. Yes, I'll attend to that. 

Sir C. [rubbing his hands~\. Well, now there's 
the question of new developments, Kendrick. 

Kendrick. I should have thought we'd devel- 
oped enough to satisfy anybody, for the 
moment. , 

Sir C. My boy, when I read that report, show- 
ing a dividend of thirty per cent., and a reserve 
of four hundred thousand pounds, and a total 
annual circulation of seven hundred million cop- 
ies, what do you suppose will be the first thought 
in the minds of the shareholders? Gratitude? Not 
much ! Their very first thought will be that we 
ought in mere justice to give 'em thirty -five per 
cent, next year instead of thirty. 

Kendrick. Greedy swine! 
128 



ACT IV 129 

Sir C. By the way, talking of circs., how much 
did you say the religious department had fallen as 
a whole? 

Kendrick. Twenty-three thousand. 

Sir C. There's pretty certain to be some awk- 
ward questions as to our row with the Bishop 
of London. I must think that over. What's the 
paragraph in the report, exactly? 

Kendrick [reading]. "Your directors have 
pleasure in stating that, despite much unfair and 
not disinterested criticism, the religious journals 
of the company have, while conserving their high 
character, more than maintained their circula- 
tions, and that this important department of 
your activities is in an extremely satisfactory 
condition." 

Sir C. So it is, considering the extraordinary 
slump in religion — which I hope to Heaven is 
only temporary. You've sacked the Reverend 
Mr. Haliburton? 

Kendrick. No. Not yet. 

Sir C. Kendrick, I believe you've got a weak- 
ness for that chap. [With emphasis.] He must 
be sacked. 

Kendrick. I've got no weakness for him. But 
who's going to take his place? 

Sir C. I am — for the next three months ! That 
satisfy you? 

Kendrick. Oh! all right, then! He'll never 
get another shop, you know. 



130 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Sir C. You needn't tell me he's growing old. 
I don't care if he's ninety and the only support of 
his aged mother. He doesn't understand religion, 
and so he's no use to us. [Softening.] You might 
offer him a sub-editorship, if you like. There's 
something vacant on Racing Illustrated, isn't 
there ? 

Kendrick. Think he'd accept it? 

Sir C. He'd accept it right enough. Besides, 
there's no compulsion. He can leave it if he 
likes. Now, listen, about new developments ! 
[With an important air.] I've got something! 

Kendrick. Yes ? 

Sir C. The Daily Mercury and the Courier are 
going to become the militant organs of the 
women's suffrage. You understand — the militant 
organs. 

Kendrick. It's an idea! 

Sir C. I should think it was an idea I 

Kendrick. And what about the Courier's cele- 
brated question after the big House of Commons 
raid six months ago? 

Sir C. What question? 

Kendrick. " Why not revive the ducking- 
stool? " 

Sir C. Did we say that? 

Kendrick. We said it across four columns. 
It'll want some explaining away. 

Sir C. Oh, no! We've been converted, that's 
all. Quite simple. Just see how public opinion 



ACT IV 131 

has changed ! We shall be the first really to take 
the thing up. 

Kendrick. Why, there's at least a dozen dailies 
that have been in favour of women's suffrage right 
through ! 

Sir C. Yes, but they don't count. Kendrick, 
how dull you are ! When I say " take the thing 
up " I mean take it up. See? 

Kendrick. Oh ! You mean, run it. 

Sir C. I do. 

Kendrick. A bit dangerous, isn't it? 

Sir C. My dear fellow, if I wasn't sure that 
it's all over except the shouting, I wouldn't touch 
it with my foot. But it's an absolute cert. And 
this is just the moment for us to come in and 
rake up the glory. It's now or never. 

Kendrick. Mrs. Vernon is a suffragist, she was 
telling me not long since. 

Sir C. Oh, yes, naturally ! 

Kendrick. You ought to write to Lady Calder, 
and get her to do something. She's frightfully 
keen on it. 

Sir C. No, I'm not going to write to Lady 
Calder. She'd be coming here. She'd be a 
nuisance. 

Kendrick. She'd be very useful, with her stand- 
ing. Of course, I know she used to — sort of — as 
it were, run after you. But as you're engaged 
now — her hopes 

Sir C. My dear chap, I'm not going to write 



132 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

to Lady Calder. She's one of the kind that never 
give up hope till you're dead. We can manage 
this campaign without Lady Calder. Now the 
first thing is — there are six suffragettes in Hol- 
loway. The Mercury has got to get 'em out. We 
must begin on the Home Secretary. 

Kendrick. Yes, but [Enter Page-boy 

with a card.'] 

Sir C. [impatiently]. What's the use of the 
red disk being up? [Taking card.] Oh! Run 
down and tell his lordship I'm coming. [Exit 
Boy. Sir Charles gets up and takes his hat.] 
It's Lord Henry Godwin. He wants me to go 
down to him [taking stick and gloves]. I think 
I know what it is [Enter Francis, L.] 

Francis. I say, Charlie. 

Sir C. Can't stop now. Sha'n't be long, I 
expect. [Exit Sir Charles, back. He hurries, but 
tries to appear deliberate.] 

Francis. I was going to tell my brother that 
you had better look out for another dramatic critic 
for Men and Women, Kendrick. 

Kendrick. Really? I'm sorry to hear that. 
Doctor been forbidding you to go out at night? 

Francis. No ! It's simply that I can't stand 
that capricious widow any longer. 

Kendrick. Capricious widow? What capri- 
cious widow? 

Francis. The capricious widow. I came up 
specially yesterday from a holiday in the Five 



ACT IV 133 

Towns to go to the new piece at the Globe, and 
there she was once morel She's been in nearly 
every play I've seen, and she gets worse and worse. 
Kendrick. I see— you're joking again. 
Francis. Indeed I'm not! That eternal wid- 
ow's charm, beauty, wilfulness, freaks, pranks, 
crotchets, and skirt-whiskings are having a serious 
effect on my constitution. I feel that if I am to 
be condemned to see her again, I ought to take 
the precaution of writing my obituary before I go 
to my execution. 

Kendrick. Well, speaking for myself, all I say 
is [in a low voice] give me a music-hall. [Enter 
Page-boy, who announces Mrs. Vernon.] 

Francis. Mrs. Vernon ! Sir Charles isn't here. 
But ask her to come in. 

Kendrick. You'd better give your notice to 
Sir Charles. [Exit, R. Enter Emily.] 

Francis. Hello, Em! [Shakes hands.] What's 
the meaning of this? 

Emily. What's the meaning of what? 
Francis. You being here. I thought you were 
staying with the mater till the end of the week, 
to make up for Charlie's absence. 

Emily. N-no. It wasn't definitely understood. 
[They sit down.] 

Francis. I suppose you couldn't stand it any 
longer. I don't blame you. It must be very 
trying for a woman to have to stay with the fam- 
ily of her future husband. The fact is, some one 



134 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

ought to apologise to you on behalf of the family, 
and I'm inclined to do it myself. 

Emily. Don't be affected, Francis. You know 
as well as I do that John and his wife are just my 
sort of people, and I'm sure that nobody could 
have been kinder than your mother. 

Francis. Well, as a matter of fact, I suppose 
we did come through Sunday night rather well. 
After the shindy, the supper was really a credit 
to every one concerned. I was proud of us all. 
... I expect these episodes must happen in all 
families. . . . Still, I felt relieved, you know, when 
Charlie announced on Monday morning that he 
could only do what John wanted by coming to 
town himself. And to be candid, Em 

Emily. Oh, Frank — with your candour . . . ! 

Francis. I wasn't what you may call sorry 
when I had to come back myself on Tuesday for 
that play. I was only sorry after I'd seen the 
play. By the by, I've decided to give up dra- 
matic criticism. 

Emily. Why ? 

Francis. I'll tell you. I can't stand the wise, 
gentle, cunning, well-dressed philosopher of fifty. 
I assure you I can't stand him. 

Emily. Which one? 

Francis. There is only one. He is appearing 
simultaneously in eleven West-End theatres. I 
don't mind Sherlock Holmes ; I don't mind Rufus 
Isaacs ; I don't mind Marcus Aurelius. But when 



ACT IV 135 

these three are all tied together with a piece of 
string and multiplied by eleven, I find the phe- 
nomenon very bad for my nervous system. No 
money is worth the strain. 

Emily. Told Charlie? 

Francis. No. I came here to break the news 
to him, but he was just going out. I'm surprised 
you didn't meet him at the lift. 

Emily. I walked up. Has he gone for the 

day? 

Francis. Oh, no! He said he should be m 
again soon. Better wait if you feel you can't live 
much longer without seeing him. When did you 
arrive ? 

Emily. I've just come. 

Francis. Straight here from Euston? 

Emily. Yes. 

Francis [after a pause]. Now look here, Em. 
What's happened? You and I are pals. 

Emily. My dear Francis, nothing has hap- 
pened. 

Francis. Mater hasn't been making herself un- 
pleasant ? 

Emily. Oh, Francis, how tiresome you are! 

Francis. I was only thinking she might have 
been preaching morals at Charlie through you. 

Emily. Not at all. Charlie has scarcely been 

mentioned. 

Francis. And Charlie and you have kept the 

peace? 



136 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily. You and I saw him off on Monday 
morning, didn't we? 

Francis. Yes. The parting seemed to lack 
none of the proper ceremonies. And no doubt 
since then you've exchanged letters. 

Emily. We've scarcely had time to exchange 
letters ; but he's written to me, since you are so 
curious. 

Francis. Curiosity is my greatest virtue. Not 
had time! [Pause. Emily shuts her lips.] I 
hope his letter was all that it ought to be. 

Emily [ironically smiling]. Would it interest 
you to read it? 

Francis. Because I gather vaguely that he 
spent most of Monday in massacring the whole 
staff. Yesterday he was less homicidal. To-day 
he is like an archangel. By the way, he hasn't 
stopped that series altogether — in the Sunday 
Mornmg News. He's just changed the Downes 
case for some other case. I suppose you 
know ? 

Emily. No, I didn't. 

Francis. There are some things that Charlie 
doesn't see. 

Emily. What do you mean? 

Francis. I mean he has a blind spot. 

Emily [sarcastically]. And you haven't en- 
lightened him? 

Francis [also sarcastically]. No. We must 
leave that to you. You are the only person who 



ACT IV 137 

can enlighten him — with your caresses! [very 
slightly accentuating the last word]. 

Emily. Frank, truly I don't know what's come 
over you to-day. You say we're pals, but 

Francis. Em! [With an impulsive slight 
movement towards her. Enter Sir Charles, who 
is very surprised to see Emily. ] 

Emily [self -consciously]. Well, Charles, I'm 
here, you see. [Francis makes a gesture to indi- 
cate that he perceives he is in the way, and 
exit, L.~\ 

Sir C. So this is why there was no letter from 
you this morning! 

Emily [as he approaches to kiss her~]. Better 
not kiss me. 

SirC. Oh! 

Emily. I've got a cold. [In a firmer tone, as 
he still approaches and seizes her hands.] No, 
really ! I mean it ! 

Sir C. [with a gesture of uncomprehending sub- 
mission]. Nothing wrong, eh? I hope the mater 
hasn't been 

Emily. Now please don't say all that Francis 
has just been saying. It's extraordinary how each 
of you Worgans imagines that the rest of the 
family is impossible to get on with. Your mother 
and I agreed perfectly. 

Sir C. That's absolutely all right, my dear 
girl. [Sits down near her.] I was only wonder- 
ing why you'd come back so suddenly. 



138 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily. Suddenly? I slept four nights in 
Bursley. One night was enough for you. 

Sir C. It is a hole, isn't it? Well, anyhow, 
I'm glad you're here. News, my child, news ! 

Emily. Indeed ? 

Sir C. Did you see a carriage and pair at the 
door when you came in? 

Emily. Yes. 

Sir C. Lord Henry Godwin's. He won't have 
a motor, you know. He sent up to ask me to go 
down and speak to him. 

Emily. I understood you and he weren't on 
speaking terms — af ter — after that epigram of his. 

Sir C. Oh! errand-boys? What do I care for 
his epigrams — now that it suits me to play up to 
him? 

Emily. I should have thought that he might 
have come up here to see you, instead of you 
going down to his carriage. 

Sir C. Gout. And he was in a deuce of a 
hurry. Besides — the point is that his uncle is 
Chancellor of Oxford University. It was his 
uncle who sent him to me. They want to make 
me an honorary D.C.L. 

Emily. What for? 

Sir C. Well, considering that I'm by far the 
largest subscriber to their special fund! . . . 
D.C.L. of Oxford? That's something, you know. 
I only wish it could be conferred before our an- 
nual meeting. It would make some of them sit 



ACT IV 139 

up, that would — a D.C.L. of Oxford presiding 
over a meeting of Worgan shareholders ! It would 
show some of 'em I'm getting there, all the same. 
Em, that idea of jours, of me giving something 
handsome to the 'Varsity, was the greatest idea 
you ever had. 

Emily. It wasn't my idea at all. 

Sir C. Oh, stuff! Don't be modest! [Nods 
his liead with slow content.] D.C.L. of Oxford, 
eh? I've known for some time that they were 
thinking of it. 

Emily. What does D.C.L. stand for? 

Sir C. [slightly taken aback']. It's Doctor of 
something. [Rises to consult a book.] 

Emily. I suppose so. 

Sir C. [shutting book with a snap]. Doctor of 
Civil Law, that's it ! [Sits down.] Well, I shall 
be a Doctor of Civil Law. And I'm running the 
Prince's, which has always been considered the 
most intellectual theatre in London. What's more, 
I'm running it at a profit. [A pause. Emily 
makes no remark.] And there's another thing 
I must tell you. I'm going to run women's 
suffrage for all it's worth in both the Mercury 
and the Courier. Yes, I decided that in the train 
on Monday morning. I've been thinking it over 
ever since. You're quite right — all the cleverest 
men are on that side, and of course it's bound 
to win. It'll be positively popular in six months' 
time. Don't you think so? 



140 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Emily. I don't know about it being popular. 

Sir C. [a little dashed]. Don't you? [De- 
cisively.] Well, anyhow I shall take the risk. I'll 
make it popular. And to begin with — I've set- 
tled one thing in my own mind — if your little 
friends the raiders aren't let out of Hollo- 
way, quick, the Home Secretary will have to be 
shifted. 

Emily. Shifted? 

Sir C. And the Mercury will shift him. 

Emily. But it isn't his fault. Everybody 
knows that. 

Sir C. I don't care. He's the figurehead, and 
he must suffer. 

Emily. But what shall you do? 

Sir C. I shall run a campaign against him, of 
course ; a Mercury campaign ! You'll see, you'll 
see ! I say — what about that house in South Aud- 
ley Street? 

Emily. House in South Audley Street? Oh, 
yes : you mentioned one in your letter. 

Sir C. I want us to go and look at it at once. 
The fact is, Em, I'm simply dying to see you 
doing the hostess in my drawing-room. I haven't 
begun yet, and I want to begin, and I can't till 
we're married. Let's go along to South Audley 
Street now, eh, as you're here? I feel like a 
spree ! 

Emily. Oh, not now! 

Sir C. Why not? 



ACT IV 141 

Emily. I didn't come here to go to South Aud- 
lej Street. 

Sir C. [looking at her~\. Vexed, is she? I fan- 
cied there was something wrong. 

Emily. No. I'm not at all vexed \_shortly~]. 

Sir C. [good-hwmowredly, cajolingly~\. Well, 
you surely aren't going to sit there and tell me 
that life is a dream of bliss at the present moment. 
What was afoot between you and Francis when I 
came in? 

Emily. Nothing. 

Sir C. Come now, there must be something. 
What is it? What was he telling you, or you 
him? You were as thick as thieves. 

Emily. Really he told me nothing — except that 
you'd suppressed the Downes case. 

Sir C. Well, as I'd promised to suppress 
it ! 

Emily. But that you were continuing the 
series. 

Sir C. Oh! that's it, is it? Great Scott! 
Great Scott! Now listen, Em. I don't want to 
argue. I prefer not to. But if you've still got 
that matter on your mind I'll suppress the whole 
blessed series. I can't stop next week's, because 
by this time three-quarters of it is printed off ; but 
the series shall end there. Simply to please you ! 

Emily [curtly\. I don't want you to do any- 
thing simply to please me. 

Sir C. [hurt], I like that, I like that, I must 



142 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

confess! What did you say on Sunday night? 
You admitted you couldn't appreciate the argu- 
ment, and you asked me to stop the article just to 
please you. You said it was the first time you 
had ever asked me to do anything for you. And 
I gave in at once. I thought you were satisfied. 
Well, it seems you aren't. I offer to give in 
further, simply to please you, though I'm taking 
hundreds of pounds out of my shareholders' pock- 
ets and acting against my own judgment into the 
bargain, and you try to sit on me by saying that 
you don't want me to do anything simply to please 
you. What do you want? Whatever it is, you 
shall have it. I've no intention of bickering with 
you. That's not my style. But I should like to 
know where I stand. 

Emily. I hate the thought of you doing any- 
thing simply to please me — I hate it ! 

Sir C. Then why did you ask me to, on 
Sunday ? 

Emily [bursting out]. Can't you see? Because 
there was nothing else to be done! You must be 
blind ! The situation was merely unspeakable. It 
had to be brought to an end. And there was only 
that way of bringing it to an end. You weren't 
open to argument. You seemed to have no notion 
at all of what people's feelings were. So I just 
had to wheedle you into it! To wheedle you 
into it! 

Sir C.' [laughing slightly and easily] . Oh I that 



ACT IV 143 

was it? Well, you had the best of me. It just 
shows how you can twist me round your little 
finger when you want to. That's all right! I 
make you a present of it. 

Emily. No. It isn't all right. It's because 
I feel it isn't all right that I've come back to-day 
— and straight here from the station! That's 
why I didn't answer your letter — because if I'd 
written I should have had to say something that 
I'm — well, I suppose it's too proud, yes, too proud, 
not to tell you like this, face to face. 

Sir C. And what's that? 

Emily. It would be a mistake for us to marry. 

Sir C. [incredulous]. Do you mean to say you 
want to throw me over? 

Emily. I don't think we ought to marry. 

Sir C. [after a pause]. When did you begin to 
think that? 

Emily. On Sunday night. 

Sir C. I don't know what you're driving at, 
and that's flat ! Here I do exactly what you ask, 
and before I know where I am, I'm to be chucked ! 
Because you can simply do what you like with me, 
you want to chuck me! I'm glad I never pre- 
tended to understand women, anyway ! 

Emily. It isn't a thing that can be argued 
about, Charlie. I've thought it over very care- 
fully, and I'm perfectly sure that it will be best 
for us to break off. Of course, I'm awfully sorry. 
It's very awkward for both of us. And it's no- 



144 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

body's fault. I'm certain we shouldn't do our- 
selves any good by discussing it. So let's leave 
it at that. 

Sir C. No i I'm damned if I'll leave it at that ! 
I've always played the game with you, and I 
expect you to play the game with me. I say I 
expect. I've done nothing that I'm ashamed of. 

Emily. I don't think you have. That's just 
the trouble. 

Sir C. What's just the trouble? 

Emily. We differ as to the precise point where 
shame ought to begin. 

Sir C. I don't see [Stops.] 

Emily [hotly]. Of course you don't. You 
needn't tell me that ! Do you imagine that if I 
thought you saw, I should be talking to you like 
this? Not exactly! I should simply have re- 
turned your ring with my compliments. 

Sir C. [sarcastically]. I've no doubt I'm a very 
odd person, but 

Emily [approaches him]. You are, Charlie! 
A man that could hold out as you did against your 
brother on Sunday night must be — well, as you 
say, odd. I ought to have guessed it earlier. But 
I didn't. You see, I'm being frank with you. 

SirC. Oh, I see that! . . . [disgustedly]. Of 
course it's no use talking a lot of rot to you about 
reconsidering your decision and all that. ... I 
suppose it occurred to you that you're making a 
fearful mess of my affairs. 



ACT IV 145 

Emily. I'm quite sure that I'm avoiding a fear- 
ful mess. 

Sir C. That's all very fine! That's all very 
fine! There are some things that I can't talk 
about. ... I can't talk about love, for instance. 
But let me tell you, you don't know what a fearful 
mess you're making ! 

Emily. I'm sorry. 

Sir C. No, that's just what you aren't. You're 
glad. You're glad to be out of it. You're jolly 
glad you've told me and got it over. You look 
down on me, and I don't know why, upon my 
soul! You're quite different when you talk to 
Francis or John. And yet I'm the cleverest chap 
in our family, by a long chalk. I could wipe the 
floor with either of my intellectual brothers, any 
day. 

Emily. Charlie, I wish you wouldn't talk like 
that. I don't look down on you. 

Sir C. I'll swear you do. . . . And all this, if 
you please, because of a newspaper article, one 
single newspaper article. Where's the common- 
sense of it? You knew all about me before we 
were engaged. 

Emily. I didn't understand what your system 
meant. 

Sir C. My system! . . . Supposing I say to 
you that I'll throw up the entire business, leave 
journalism altogether — and be content to enjoy 
myself on the miserable interest of a million and a 



146 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

half in first-class securities — what price that for 
an offer, eh? I'm not much of a drawing-room 
singer, but what price that for an offer? Will 
that satisfy you? 

Emily. No, I could never agree to such a thing. 
It would be madness. 

Sir C. Now I'm mad! Naturally! Well, 
you've taken it into your head to ruin my show, 
and that's an end of it! All I have to do is to 
shut up and look pleasant. I kept off women for 
forty years, and I wish to God I'd kept off 'em 
for forty-one. I might have known. 

Emily [holding out her hand]. Good after- 
noon, Charlie. 

Sir C. [looking at her hand]. You just take a 
thing into your head — and, pstt, it's all over and 
done with in a minute! 

Emily [moving away]. I should think better 
of you if you didn't go on in this way. You 
seem to forget that I suffer too. 

Sir C. [more and more carried away]. And 
whose fault is that? Is it mine? 

Emily. When you talk about " just taking it 
into my head," you are insulting [moving towards 
door]. 

Sir C. [bitterly]. That's it! Try to put me 
in the wrong ! But you can't. I've not changed. 
I've never made any pretensions. I've never hid- 
den anything. I've never said I was a moralist. 
I've never posed as being better than other peo- 



ACT TV 147 

pie. But I've always maintained the right of the 
public to have what they want, and my right to 
give 'em what they want. 

Emily. Sell — not give. 

Sir C. Sell, then. 

Emily. No matter what they want? 

Sir C. Certainly, so long as it's legal ! Supply 
must meet demand! 

Emily. Yes, and I do believe if the sacred pub- 
lic wanted your wife you'd meet the demand ! 
[Exit, back. Sir Charles walks about and lights 
a cigarette. Enter Kendrick, R.~\ 

Kendrick. Oh, you are back! 

Sir C. Yes, what is it? 

Kendrick. Well, about this new campaign? 

Sir C. [sits down]. Sit down. I'll tell you. 
Can you put your hand on any of those limerick 
clerks we had to get rid of? 

Kendrick. I should think it's quite possible ! 

Sir C. Well, you might get hold of twenty 
or so. 

Kendrick. What for? 

Sir C. For correspondence. It's like this. 
There are four hundred and fifteen M.P.'s who 
have declared themselves in favour of Women's 
Suffrage. And yet nothing is done. Every 
damned one of those hypocritical rotters has got 
to be brought fairly to bay, in his own constitu* 
ency, not here in London, but where he can be 
frightened. 



148 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Kendrick. You may say without exaggeration 
that this'll be a bit of a job. 

Sir C. Yes, it'll keep a few of you employed. 

Kendrick. Mr. Francis would be useful, I 
should think. Has he told you he means to stop 
doing dramatic criticism? 

Sir C. No. By the way [Hesitates, as 

if at a loss.] See here, Kendrick, I'll go on with 
this later. I was forgetting. [Stops again.] 
To-morrow morning, eh? [Rises.] 

Kendrick [rather puzzled]. All right. What 
time ? 

Sir C. Ten o'clock. [Kendrick nods and exit, 
R. Sir Charles opens door, L.] 

Sir C. I say, Frank. 

Francis [off]. Hello? 

Sir C. I just want to speak to you a minute. 
[Enter Francis, L.] 

Francis [self-consciously and hesitatingly]. 
Well? [He shuts door carefully.] 

Sir C. [after hesitation]. I hear you intend to 
give up theatrical criticism? 

Francis. Yes. 

Sir C. What's the meaning of this new move? 

Francis [with a jocular appearance of being 
confidential]. The fact is, I've come to the con- 
clusion I can't stand the actor-manager any 
longer. 

Sir C. Can't stand the actor-manager? 

Francis. Merely to see him in his magnificent 



ACT IV 149 

splendour makes me feel such a worm that it's 
positively bad for my health. I've stood him as 
long as I can. 

Sir C. I suppose this is a hint that you'll be 
leaving us altogether soon? 

Francis. Well, I never gave you the idea that 
I should be a permanency, did I? And really, 
overhauling obituaries isn't what you'd call a fev- 
erish joy. As soon as I've got down to W, and 
attended to you and myself, Lewis Waller, James 
Welch, John Strange Winter, Wilbur Wright, A. 
B. Walkley, Mrs. Humphry Ward, and a few 
other important people, it's quite on the cards that 
I may resume my travels. You've given me a 
unique time, and taught me all that I didn't know 
about human nature. Also I've accumulated a 
pile of money. 

Sir C. That's it — you'd better all go together ! 

Francis. What do you mean? 

Sir C. [m a low voice~\. Emily has thrown me 
over. 

Francis. Look here, Charlie. Of course as I'm 
your brother I can't boil over in sympathy; but 
I'm very sorry — really. [Pause.] 

Sir C. You don't seem exactly staggered. 

Francis. N — no. Besides, I knew. 

Sir C. Knew? How did you know? 

Francis. She's just told me. She came straight 
into my room. 

Sir C. How did she come into your room? 



150 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 

Francis. By the corridor, naturally. She's in 
there now. 

Sir C. Hm! And I suppose you were discuss- 
ing me inside out. I must say that with you 
Emily was always more 

Francis. No, no ! She simply came to consult 
me about a question that is naturally very much 
on her mind. 

SirC. What's that — if I'm not being too curious? 

Francis. The question of how she is to earn 
a living, of course ! She hasn't a cent, and she's 
no prospects. She's in a devilish awkward hole. 

Sir C. [after a pause, quietly]. That's true, 
and I can't offer her anything. ... I say, Frank, 
you must fix that up for me, somehow. It'll have 
to be done very delicately. 

Francis. As you say, very delicately. 

Sir C. Of course I can easily find her some- 
thing pretty handsome — some place that'll keep 
her for life. 

Francis. I don't imagine she'll need it for quite 
that long. 

Sir C. Not need it 

Francis. Well, it'll be a miracle if a woman 
like Em doesn't marry some one before she's very 
much older. 

Sir C. What does that mean? 

Francis. How do I know? [They look at each 
other. Francis moves towards door.] 

Sir C. Where are you going? 



ACT IV 151 

Francis. I can't leave her in there alone in- 
definitely. 

Sir C. lafter a pause]. It'll be a lesson to me, 
I can tell you. 

Francis. What will? 

Sir C. All this ! I've done with you superior, 
intellectual people. I'm going right away on the 
other tack now. As regards journalism, you shall 
cater for yourselves. 

Francis. Oh ! I expect we shall manage to do 

that. 

Sir C. I don't care if every friend I have leaves 

me! 

Francis. My dear fellow, the great British 
public is your friend. What more do you require? 

Sir C. You may laugh. But nobody can stop 
me from going ahead, and I shall end in the House 
of Lords. [Prepares to speak into dictaphone.'] 

Francis. It is the very place for you, Charlie. 
No sensible person would think of trying to stop 
you from going ahead, right into the House of 
Lords. You keep on giving the public what it 
wants just as long as ever you can. That's your 
mission in life. Only prepare for the rainy day. 

Sir C. What rainy day? 

Francis. The day when the public wants some- 
thing better than you can give it. [Exit.] 

Sir C. [into dictaphone]. My dear Lady 

Calder — — 

[Curtain.] 



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